


The Secrets People Hide

by TheWordDoc



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, Case Fic, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Psychological Torture, Reunion, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:21:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 60,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWordDoc/pseuds/TheWordDoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that Sherlock is alive. And that is just going to have to be enough for now. In the meantime, he’ll continue the work. The work was always the important thing.</p><p>But when Sherlock returns, he finds it difficult to insinuate himself back into a world that's gone on without him. How has Sherlock and John's relationship changed? Can they re-learn to manoeuvre around one another and the work ? And what happens when a threat more powerful than Moriarty threatens to bring their new life crashing down around them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Non-beta'd, non-britpicked, so if you see something, say something!

Chapter One

 

          John Watson wakes up violently, pulling in great, heaving breaths, and wills his body to stop, stop, _stop_ shaking. The raw, razor-sharp edges of his nightmare still cut at his mind, causing John to roll into himself, clutching at his stomach, wishing more than anything that the ache would go away. He knows the pain is irrational—knows the nightmare, though pulled from the darkest fears lodged in his subconscious, is based on a fallacy, a trick, a deception—but it doesn’t stop him from having it nearly every night.

          When John’s breathing regulates and the erratic pounding in his chest settles down, he rolls over and sits up. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa again, sometime in the night, while going through case files. He bends to retrieve from the floor the one he’d been reading when he fell asleep. He shuffles the papers, re-organizing them before slotting them back into the file folder. An ordinary case, one where the wife wants proof of her husband’s affair, John had finished collating the evidence late last night. Early this morning? He hates taking these types of cases (“ _boring_ ” the bittersweet remembrance of a low-pitched voice sounds through his mind), but it’s money John can’t turn down. Money he can’t turn down and something to keep his mind busy if only for a little while longer.

           John glances at his watch, then scrubs the palms of his hands over his face. He has a little over an hour before he needs to be at the clinic. He gets to his feet, but feels unbalanced. He reminds himself that his feet are firmly on the floor. That his feet were never the problem.

 _Quick cup of tea and a shower_ , he thinks _and hopefully by then I’ll remember the nightmare isn’t real_.

 

           It has been nearly two years since…that day. He’d skipped the funeral, preferring, instead, to visit the grave accompanied only by Mrs. Hudson. He doesn’t remember much of those first few weeks, and what he does remember comes in flashes of memory, white hot and aching. He remembers sitting in his chair, unmoving, while first Mrs. Hudson, then Lestrade, and finally Mycroft (is he remembering that right?) sat with him for hours (days?).

            It was on the third day that a seed of doubt began to germinate. He felt…unwell. He’d grieved before: his parents, a friend from uni, and he was an army doctor, for Christ sake. He’d lost more mates from gunshot wounds and bomb blasts than he cared to think about right then.  He had experience with the bruised, gutted sensation of grief, and what he felt wasn’t that. His muscles were achy and tense, he was sweating through his clothes, he was constantly on the verge of vomiting up what little tea Mrs. Hudson had forced him to drink, his heart was racing, and he’d had a headache since. Since that day.

            Before moving into 221B, John would have assumed he’d just caught a bug, but over the last year he’d grown cautious. Some might say paranoid, but he could more than make the argument that a little paranoia was justified, thank you very much. But he needed proof. He didn’t find any puncture wounds, and there was no real point in doing blood work: any drug was long metabolized out of his system, but most drugs were present in urine up to a week after exposure—some up to thirty days.

 _I suppose there’ve been worse things in this refrigerator_ , John thought as he’d placed the filled plastic container on a shelf. A half finished experiment next to it made his heart constrict, so he shut the door quickly and probably harder than was strictly necessary. As soon as Mrs. Hudson retired for the evening, he’d begin his own testing.

             Late that night, sitting in the kitchen, hunched over the table, in a position he’d seen his flatmate in hundreds of times, John had watched for chemical reactions, and waited for his suspicions to be confirmed. When it happened—proof of the heavily concentrated presence of Benzodiazepines—he didn’t know what to think. He didn’t know what it _meant_ , but the fact that he’d been drugged—and on that day—must mean _something_.

             So while Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft fluttered around the periphery of his conscious thought, plying him with tea and biscuits, attempts at conversation, and weighty silences, John had seized onto this wispy idea of _something_ not being right.

             It took John Watson nearly three weeks to realize his friend wasn’t really dead, but when the idea hit him he realized it was the only possible answer. Sher…his flatmate had been so fond of reminding him that “when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” So, while he had lacked the necessary proof, mainly how the deception was carried out, and who was involved in pulling it off, John had known, without a shadow of a doubt, that his friend was alive. And that was just going to have to be enough for now. In the meantime, he’d continue the work. The work was always the important thing.

 

*

           

              Somewhere in the cloying humidity of South America, a man whose dark hair used to hang over his ears in soft curls, who used to wear a heavy Belstaff coat, and who’d grown used to not being alone, pulls a mobile phone from the pocket of his light linen trousers.

 

            _The structure is crumbling. How is he? –SH_

_He is fine. Finish this. –MH_

            Though most of what he used to be and know is now uncertain, the one thing he never questions is where he’s supposed to be. And if takes every last breath he has, he will make it back to John Watson’s side. 


	2. Chapter 2

            John closes the door to 221 Baker as quietly as possible, then makes his way up the stairs, taking care to skip the seventh stair with its tendency to squeak. As much as he loves Mrs. Hudson, he simply does not have the time to talk to her right now. If he honestly thought about it, he’d not actually taken the time to talk to Mrs. Hudson in a few weeks, not had tea with her in over a month. She’d even stopped coming up to 221B altogether after he yelled at her for moving some of the beakers and flasks from the kitchen table. He’d apologized immediately, but she gave him a shy, sad look and hadn’t ventured into the flat since. That had been over a year ago. Not long after. That day. The day his friend left.

            But John doesn’t think about that now. All he thinks about now is getting from one job to the next. He’s managed to pick up a few overnight shifts a week at the A&E, and was just home after a long night of sutures and IVs and setting bones to get a change of clothes before heading off for his shift at the clinic.

            On his way back out the door, John grabs the top three files from the stack next to the door—open cases he’s been working on, and hopes to go over again on his lunch break.  Mostly tedious cases that would’ve been solved long ago if he weren’t the one working on them.

            Mrs. Hudson is waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, holding a travel mug and a brown paper sack.

            “Ah, Mrs. Hudson, I hope I didn’t wake you when I came in,” John says.

            “Oh no, dear. I’ve been up for a while. Hip’s been giving me trouble,” she says. “I figured you’d be running back out, so I made you some tea and a packed lunch. You’re getting so thin, dear.”

            “You’re a saint,” John says, leaning in to give the older woman a kiss on the cheek.

            “Oh, I don’t know about all that, but you can make it up to me by coming for tea sometime later this week?” she asks.

            “That’d be nice,” John says, though he commits to nothing. This is their routine. She’ll ask him for tea, and he’ll find a way out of it. He doesn’t want to hear what she has to say, not about his flatmate, not about his need to move on, not about how tired and pale he looks. So he makes some vague, evasive comment and ensures that he’s not around the flat near teatime.

           

            A little while later, after walking through the clinic doors, John greets the receptionist “Good morning, Fiona.”

            “G’mornin’ Dr. Watson,” she says. “Your first appointment is here. I already put him in your office. S’already busy this morning, an’ he seemed a bit agitated by all the people. He said you knew him, and that he didn’t think you’d mind,” she goes on to explain.

            John feels as if he’s been punched in the gut, and his feet can hardly be called coordinated as he fumbles his way back to his office. _Is it him? Why here? He’d come back and see me for the first time in two years here?_ John places his hand on the handle of his office door, willing his heart to calm down and his breath to even out. He opens the door slowly.

            Lestrade stands on the inside of the office, looking over John’s diplomas on the wall. He turns when he hears the door open.

            “John,” he says. He shifts from one foot to the other, his hands behind his back as his eyes scan the doctor’s face, noting the ugly purple bruises under the man’s eyes, the deep hollows beneath his cheekbones, and the ashen pallor of his skin.

            John makes his way over to his desk and sits down in his chair, no longer certain his legs will keep him upright. “Greg,” he acknowledges the other man, but doesn’t look at him. “What can I help you with today? Case of the sniffles? Cough you can’t shake? You’re still not smoking, right?” He shuffles paperwork on his desk, puts his sack lunch in the desk drawer, switches on his computer. Anything that will keep him from looking at the man—the wrong man—in his office.

            Greg sits down in the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “John,” he says again.

            The effort it takes John to tear his gaze away from the papers in his hand is considerable, and his whole body fights every moment of it.

            “I haven’t heard from you in weeks, mate,” the DI says. “Not since you asked for help on that blackmail case.”

            “What? You want a thank you note?” John asks, his tone harsh and biting.

            Greg leans back in his chair and lets out a heavy sigh.

            “That was uncalled for. Sorry, Greg,” John apologizes.

            “No, no worries. I just haven’t heard from you, is all. You never return my texts or my calls.”

            “I’ve been busy,” John says by way of explanation.

            “Looks like it. Just not busy sleeping, I take it? When’s the last time you had a good night sleep, mate?” Greg asks.

            John sighs. “Oh…1994?” He tries to let out a laugh, but it sounds forced, even to him.

            “Mycroft called me. Said he’s been trying to get a hold of you, too. Says he sat outside Baker for almost eight hours the other day, waiting for you to come home. He left a note on your door?”

            “When will you people get it? I don’t want to see you!” his hand slams down on the desk, punctuating his statement. “I don’t need any company, I don’t need any sympathy, and I don’t need,” John’s voice breaks, “I don’t need any reminders.”

            It takes a few moments for John to meet Greg’s eyes, and when he does he sees nothing but misery and pity.

            “Look, Greg, if there’s nothing you need from me, I do have other patients to see.”

            “Sure, John. But let’s get a pint soon, yeah?” Greg asks as he gets up from his chair.

            “That’d be nice,” John says for the second time that day.

 

            Late that night, after delivering the evidence for yet another case involving a cheating spouse, after meeting new clients for a potential theft case, and after spending an hour following a suspect in a blackmail case, John walks home. And he’s so tired that he shouldn’t notice that he’s being followed. He shouldn’t notice that there’s a man on the other side of the street about a hundred meters back with broad shoulders and blonde hair who’s been following him for close to an hour. He shouldn’t notice, but he does.

 

*

 

            From South America the man with passports from a dozen countries, and currency from at least a dozen more, makes his way to St. Petersburg, Russia; from there it’s Tashkent, Uzbekistan; and Vancouver, Canada; and Marrakesh, Morocco; and a hundred other cities large and small. He’s deduced his way around the globe, ferreting out and destroying the cleverly crafted tendrils of Moriarty’s crime web.

He’s tried to take down each cell with as little bloodshed as possible, but his hands aren’t clean. He wonders if John would be disappointed in him. In the things he’s had to do. But, he rationalizes, if he wasn’t doing what he is, John wouldn’t be around to _be_ disappointed. He decides he can take disappointment, anger, hatred, as long as John is alive.

            He’s in Taipei when he realizes that something is amiss. It’s all been a little too easy. The length of time it has taken him to dismantle the web is due only to the vastness of the network. Not one single strain of the web has been difficult to unravel. It was almost as if some unseen force has been helping him the whole time—and from the inside.

            For the first time in nearly two years, he picks up the phone and makes a call.

            “I’m afraid your suspect in Taipei has disappeared. Indefinitely,” he says by way of greeting.

            “Ah, it’s just as well. Extradition from Taiwan is a _nightmare_ ,” the man on the other end says.

            “I know you’ll accuse me of being paranoid, but something is wrong, Mycroft. So very, very wrong,” he says forcefully.

            “There’s only one left, brother, and I have it on good authority he’s here in London. That he, in fact, never left,” Mycroft says, trying to assuage his brother’s tension.

            “I’d already deduced that, _brother_. But that doesn’t disprove my suspicions.”

            “It’s been two years. You’ve been living too long in a state of constant paranoia. Once Moran is dead, it will be over. And once it’s over,” he pauses, “you and John can move on.”

            The other end of the line is quiet.

            “It’s time to come home, Sherlock.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not beta'd. Still not Britpicked. 
> 
> So if you see an error, let me know! 
> 
> (Also: still a WIP, so subject to minor revisions.)

Chapter Three

 

            John doesn’t want to be home. He wants to be at the clinic, or the A&E, or on a case, or anywhere that doesn’t make him wonder how bloody long his friend will be gone, because god _damn_ it, hasn’t it been long enough? He doesn’t want to wonder where the man is, or who he’s with, and he _certainly_ doesn’t want to wonder if he’s waiting in vain for a man who will never come home.

            But sometimes he’s not working. And sometimes he doesn’t have a case. These are the dark nights; the nights when the memory of violin music is too haunting to ignore; the absence of a sulking or whirling dervish of a mad detective too profound to deny; the sight of a single mug on the draining board by the kitchen sink too overwhelming to process.

            Tonight is a dark night, but instead of spending hours gazing out the front window, willing a familiar figure into view, or pacing the flat like a caged tiger, waiting for footsteps on the stairs, John sits in his armchair, wondering how long he’s meant to go on like this. At what point he's waited too long. And what will happen when he reaches that point.

            John can’t remember the last time he turned on the TV—after all, when you know how fast the media can turn, how easily they can be swayed, and how damaging their betrayal can be, it sort of makes you hesitate to invite them into your sitting room, yeah? But John can’t sit in silence tonight. Not again. He can’t stare at the empty chair or sofa across from him, can’t meet eyes with the garish yellow smiling face that seems now to mock him, and he absolutely cannot run his hands one more time over the Belstaff coat that’s been hanging on the back of the door since Lestrade brought it back empty all those months ago.

            So John turns on the TV and the room fills with the unfamiliar, too-bright voices from one of those gossip programmes.

            _“…aggie Alexander, wife of Deputy Prime Minister Steven Alexander has disappeared. And if my sources are correct, it’s because she’s secretly shacked up with none other than the Prime Minister’s brother!”_

_“Well, Jack, based on his history, we can be sure she’ll be crawling back to dear old Steven within a month. [Canned studio laughter.]”_

_“And moving on. As you well know, Bonnie, we’re approaching the two year anniversary of the suicide of that genius detective…”_

             Remote in hand, John turns the power off as fast fingers will allow. He doesn’t want to hear _them_ talking about him—doesn’t want to hear _them_ say his name.

            John sighs and scrubs his hands through his hair. He knows the night is a wash and, though he isn’t tired, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling is better than trying to pretend he feels anything but lost in the achingly empty flat.

 

*

 

            A long day at the clinic just gets longer when Sarah pokes her head into John’s office during his lunch break.

            “Dr. Gupta just called in. Apparently his wife is sick and he needs to take care of the kids. Any chance you’d be willing to work a double?” she asks.

            He stops rifling through the paperwork on his desk and thinks for a moment. “Uh, I’d have to leave by 7:30 for a meeting, but I can work until then,” he offers.

            “Good enough for me,” she says. “Should be a quiet night, anyway.”

            “Oh, don’t say that! Now we’re going to get bombarded!” he says, laughing quietly. The smile on his face feels strange—like it’s cracking the skin around his mouth. He wonders when he last smiled.

            “Well, no matter. 7:30’s good no matter what’s going on,” she says, though she knows he’ll stay if he’s needed. “Felt bad asking you to begin with, given how much you’ve been working lately. But I need you,” she says.

            “You do remember I’m off for the next few days, though, right?” he asks. “Starting tomorrow?”

            “Yes. We’ll try not to fall apart in your absence,” she teases. “Finally going on holiday? Anywhere nice?”

            “No, nothing like that. Someone asked me to look into something in Norwich,” he explains.          

            The smile on Sarah’s face shrinks. “I do wish you’d take a break.”

            “Until you ask me to work another double, that is?” he asks. He tries to make it seem like a joke, but it falls flat.

            “I mean it, John. You look awful.”  There's that look in her eyes. The look of pity that he just can't stomach.

            “And you’ve gained weight, but you don’t see me announcing it,” he says, his eyes flashing, voice sharp.

            They’re both quiet for a moment, neither wanting to acknowledge who he sounds like.

            “You can’t keep going like this forever, John,” she says, her voice soft.

            “Hopefully, I won’t have to,” he says.

 

*

 

            Thankfully, by the time 7:30 rolls around, there’s been no major calamity, so John leaves the clinic and its skeleton crew with a clear conscience. But he’s less than a hundred meters from the clinic door when the hairs on the nape of his neck stand on end, and a heavy ball of lead settles into the pit of his stomach. He knows this feeling—grew used to it in Afghanistan, befriended it while running around with his mad flatmate. It is this instinct for sensing an imminent threat that has him covertly checking the periphery of his vision for shadows that are not his own.

            He picks up the tail on the other side of the sidewalk almost immediately. The man is thick cut, with broad shoulders and hands the size of frying pans. John is careful not to alert the man that he’s been made.

            A block later John is surprised to notice a second shadow. This one is on the same side of the street as him, but more than a block behind. A tall woman with long auburn hair, she, like the man on the other side of the street, keeps pace with him, but far enough back that, were John not already on alert, he might not have noticed.

            Preferring not take his tails to a client’s doorstep—no, he’d much rather take them back to Baker St. and his Browning—John makes a quick call.

            “Hullo, Martin. John Watson here. Sorry about the change of plans, but it looks like I’m not going to make it tonight,” he says quickly as soon as his client answers the phone. “You should have a chat with your son, though, about what he and his friends are doing with those parts they’ve been taking,” he continues. The man owns an auto repair shop and keeps coming up short every time he does inventory. He thought one of his employees was the thief, and is, understandably, not happy about the results of John’s investigation.

            “I’m sorry I won’t be able to stop by, but I’ll drop the evidence and my bill in the post tomorrow,” John says before hanging up.

            He pauses on the front step to 221, and, as he pulls his keys from his pocket, he makes a quick check, confirming his two shadows are still with him. The man across the street stops to buy a paper from the vendor, but the woman continues walking when John enters his building.

            With adrenalin coursing through his body, John races up the stairs two at a time, ignoring the pain in his leg, and pausing at the top to catch his breath. Then, as if his movements are dictated by some Pavlovian response, he heads to the kitchen to put water on for tea. And, because either instinct is telling him to, or because he’s still feeling the buzz of adrenalin pulsing in his veins, John pulls his Browning from its hiding place under the sink and flicks off the safety.

            The kettle begins to whistle and, because he’s not thinking, or rather because his mind is focused on wondering who was following him and for what reason, John pulls two mugs down from the cupboard, and without realizing he’s done it, makes a cup of tea for himself, and one for his long-missing friend. He’s done this before, on mornings after particularly harrowing nights, or late in the evening when he’s not slept for days, or when he’s absent-mindedly making tea while going through the details of a case.  And though he can’t stand the way his flatmate takes his tea, John always drinks it.

            Before he can move to the sitting room with his abundance of tea, John hears footsteps on the stairs. Evenly paced, measured, determined. He wonders if this is the reason the feeling of dread still sits heavy in his gut.

            Instead of a knock, however, the door to the flat just opens, and ushers in the woman who was following John. But in the place of a head full of wavy auburn hair are black curls, and though they’re more closely cropped on the side than John’s ever seen, they’re unmistakable. As are those piercing gray eyes.

            “Hello, John.” With those two simple words, the man’s voice breaks like crashing waves over rocks.

 _That voice_. John knows that voice. Would know it anywhere. Would know it a thousand lifetimes from now. Might have recognized it even if he’d never met its owner.

             For several minutes John leans against the kitchen counter trying to process, unsure of the efficacy of his footing. He tries to reconcile the image before him with the one from his memory. Begs his brain to let him believe what he’s seeing. Wills his heart to stop beating _so bloody fast_.

             “Sherlock.” The name is more of a breath than any attempt at a spoken word. “I—I made you some tea,” John says, weakly, handing over the mug.

              Sherlock brings the mug to his lips a takes a deep drink, his eyes trained on John as he tips his head back.

              John is fascinated by the way the man’s Adam’s apple rises and falls, the way the man’s curls fall back from his forehead as his head tips back, the way the man’s fingers clutch the handle of the cup. It’s as if he’s some new creature. Some beautiful, mysterious, as yet unknown creation.

              “You—you’ve taken to dressing as a woman now, yeah?” John says, trying to find his voice.

              “You’ve seen all my male disguises,” Sherlock explains, giving a sort of half shrug. “Besides, this one has gotten me into some fairly secure locations, John.”

              “What’s this one’s—what’s this one’s name?” John asks. He’s still trying to find his footing. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do, or how he’s supposed to act.

               Sherlock can’t seem to tear his eyes away from John’s face. “I call her Mary Morstan. She’s a nurse,” Sherlock says.

               John gestures to the bright pink business suit. “Not in that, she’s not,” John tries to laugh. It’s more of a quick expulsion of air. He’s not sure he knows how to joke anymore.

               "I thought you might appreciate the parallelism from our first case together," Sherlock says, his voice soft.

               John grabs his mug of tea in his right hand, his gun still in his left. He leaves the kitchen on shaky legs and walks to the sofa. Through his brief encounter with Sherlock, the sensation of impending danger remains. He instinctively avoids his chair—his usual seat. Sherlock follows him. As John sets his mug on the coffee table, he turns to warn Sherlock: “Steer clear of the windo—“

               “What’s the gun fo—” Sherlock starts at the same time, but before either can finish what they’re saying, John seizes in fear ( _the other tail_ ), and hauls his friend towards him, pulling him flush against his chest just as the bullet shatters the left front window.

                John doesn’t think; he acts. He quickly calculates the bullet’s angle of entry, aims, and pulls the trigger on the Browning.

                They both pause for a moment, waiting for return fire. But none ever comes.

                Sherlock’s eyes are wide as he looks down at John, mere inches from his face.

                “Sniper,” John explains, a little breathless. “Surprised you didn’t know.”

                There’s a moment when nothing happens. A moment where one man’s exhalation becomes the other’s inhalation. A moment where their lives could go in a hundred different directions. But the direction in which they head feels as though it’s been chosen for them since long before they met. John stares into Sherlock’s eyes as the space between them closes, because neither can bare the idea of losing sight of each other for one more second. Their lips finally meet, just resting against each other for a long second before the touch transforms into a deep, bruising kiss. A kiss that John hopes conveys just how much he has missed, longed for, and loves this man. John opens his mouth and licks along the seam of the other man’s lips, pleading them to open, begging for access. When Sherlock’s lips open, John emits a shallow whimper. The kiss is desperate and needy and has the potential to consume them both in a ball of flame, and they’re both tempted to let it.

                 But John pulls away first, his breath tripping its way out of his chest. “I don’t want to do this when you have breasts,” he says, his voice shaking and head nodding to indicate the disguise Sherlock is still wearing.

                “Well, John,” Sherlock says, a slow grin spreading across his face like a sunrise. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

 

            John doesn’t pause to let the man’s smile wash over him. He quickly withdraws from Sherlock, and, in a bid to ascertain whether the sniper is truly dead, or if he is waiting for a clear shot, John drops down and army crawls to the far side of the sitting room.

            “Get down,” he turns and hisses at Sherlock, who’s standing where John left him, the surprised smile still painted across his face. At the harsh tone in the former army Captain’s voice, Sherlock breaks from his momentary puzzlement and folds into a low crouch.

            “Toss me that hat,” John gestures towards the deerstalker, which hadn’t moved from the coffee table for months, as evidenced by the deerstalker-shaped ring of dust around its base. “Try and throw it at head-level.”

            Sherlock grabs the hat and reflects on it for a moment, then looks at John. “My height or yours?” he asks, causing the older man to roll his eyes.

            “Just toss the damn thing,” John says.

            Taking a chance that the hat’s movement will capture the sniper’s attention—if he’s still alive—John, instead of reaching to catch the hat, peeks out from between the window casing and the heavy curtains.

            “He’s dead,” John is able to confirm before the hat hits the floor. He stands up slowly, knees creaking in protest.

            “How do you know?” Sherlock asks.

            John takes a moment to appreciate the role reversal, then explains: “The rifle’s still in the window, but it’s angled all wrong.” He makes a loopy gesture with the hand not holding his gun and continues, “It’s resting on its side and pointed up. That’s how it landed.”

            Sherlock unfurls from his squat and moves right into pacing. “But how? How did you know he was there to begin with?”

            Sherlock is apparently off his game, and in the question phase of the night. Which, John thinks, isn’t really fair at all. It’s supposed to be _his_ turn to ask the questions. John sighs, “I may not have your powers of deduction, Sherlock, but my gut instinct has saved my arse enough times to know to trust it.”

            Sherlock appears to consider this for a second before he says “huh,” then leaves the room, heading toward his bedroom.

            John watches the man retreat and huffs out a breath. Now that Sherlock’s no longer in the room, he tries to force his mind to analyze the last half hour. But, like a car with a dead battery, his mind won’t turn over. There is a distinct disconnect between his head and his body, like they’re no longer attached to one another. John suspects it’s a bit like he’s floating. It doesn’t feel good or bad—it doesn’t _feel_ like anything.

            He’s experienced this once before, in Afghanistan. After two days of heavy fire from well-armed insurgents, with no sleep, no reinforcements, and having lost more lives than he saved, he’d done a quick and dirty surgery on a mate’s blown artery, stopping the should-have-been-fatal blood loss in a matter of a couple of minutes. At the time, the gunfire had faded away, along with the RPG blasts, the screaming of the wounded on both sides of the battle, and the oppressive heat and stench of a desert that had grown too comfortable with death and devastation. He’d made it through another day and a half like that before reinforcements arrived. He’d stopped thinking; he just acted.

            Which is what he does now: he continues not to think; just act. He walks into the kitchen, shoves his gun into the cutlery drawer, and returns to the sitting room with a roll of broad silver tape and a large piece of heavy plastic. (While Sherlock was above taking preventative measures when it came to particularly messy experiments, John was always more prepared.)

            He hears the sirens a few seconds before he sees the flashing lights from the emergency response vehicles as they race around the corner of Baker Street, and it registers that someone probably called them. _I didn’t call them, did I?_ He thinks, but he doesn’t know where his phone is, so he thinks probably not.

            He hears Lestrade’s voice. “John! _John_!” It booms up the stairwell, preceding him into the flat. “John, answer me!” He yells as he busts through the flat door.

            “In here, Greg,” John says, laying down a thick strip of silver tape between the edge of the plastic sheeting and the window casing.

            DI Lestrade is breathless when he steps through the door. “Oh Christ, man,” he says, stopping short when he sees John. Donovan and Anderson almost run into him as they follow him through the door. “Oh, Christ. I thought…” he pauses, running his hands roughly over his hair. “I thought you’d gone and…”

            “Gone and what?” Sherlock asks, taking that moment to step into the room through the kitchen. He’s fastening the cuff of his shirt, having taken the opportunity to change out of the pink business suit and into the clothes he’d left behind. The clothes John had never even considered getting rid of.

            “Ah, fuck,” Donovan says, her eyes growing wide and horrified.

             Anderson opens his mouth to say something, but chooses instead to turn around and leave, muttering “No. No, nope, no,” as he stomps back down the stairs of the flat.

            “What the _bloody_ hell!” Lestrade yells when he sees Sherlock.

            “Yes, yes, all right. Big surprise. Not dead,” Sherlock says, shaking his hands in mock astonishment. “Now, what did you think John had ‘gone and done’?” he asks, enunciating the last three words carefully.

            Lestrade turns from Sherlock and looks at John with a face full of pain and pity. When John sees it, he’s surprised. He was sure that look would have vanished as soon as Sherlock returned.

            “John, mate. You okay?” Lestrade is asking.

            “Fine, fine, Greg. The sniper in the flat across the way isn’t, though,” John says, laying down another length of silver tape.

            Lestrade turns and quietly tasks Donovan with taking the rest of the team to check it out. Then he turns back around, ignoring Sherlock, and slowly approaches the man at the window. “John, what’s going on?” he asks softly.

            John sighs. “I’m fine, Greg. Sniper tried to shoot me through the window. He was shot before he got me. Or Sherlock,” John says, motioning vaguely in Sherlock’s direction. Then, remembering he isn’t supposed to have a gun, he quickly adds on “Don’t know who shot him, though. Maybe one of Mycroft’s men.” He runs his hand once more around the edge of the window, checking for drafts. _Is it supposed to rain tonight? Mrs. Hudson will hate if the floors are damaged,_ he thinks.

            “What, _exactly_ , did you do in the army, John?” Lestrade asks, not buying what John is trying to sell, though he knows it’s still the story he’ll put in his report.

            “I was a doctor, Greg. A really, spectacularly qualified doctor.”

            “I guess so, mate,” Lestrade says, and places his hand on John’s shoulder.

            John, still evaluating his work on the window, jumps when the hand touches him. He grabs Lestrade’s wrist and twists it behind the DI’s back in one swift, excruciating move, causing the man to groan in agony.

            “John, stop,” Sherlock says firmly, trying to get the man’s attention. “John, let go of Lestrade!”

            The fight immediately goes out of John. “Jesus, oh, Jesus,” he says, his eyes wide and panic-stricken with the realization of what he’s done. He drops Lestrade’s wrist and holds his hands up in surrender. “Fuck, Greg, I’m so sorry!”

            Lestrade holds his arm to his chest, rubbing his wrist with his other hand. “No worries, John. You’ve just been shot at. I should have known better,” he says. He doesn’t have to identify to either of the other two men that the situation has obviously aggravated John’s PTSD symptoms.

            A commotion at the door of the flat draws the attention of all three men away from the tense moment.

            “John? Oh, John? Are you here?” Mrs. Hudson is saying as she ascends the stairs. “He hasn’t done it, has he?” The men can hear her ask one of the officers stationed near the door. “John!” she yells once more as she finally rushes into the flat. Upon seeing John, her eyes grow large and her breath catches.  She crosses the room, and her hands shake as she gathers him into a hug.

            “Oh, John. I thought, when I saw all those cars outside, I thought…” her voice breaks before trailing off.

            Sherlock clears his throat. “Mrs. Hudson.”

            Hearing her name, and in _that_ voice, she snaps her head up from where it had come to rest on John’s shoulder, and, despite her troublesome hip, she turns with near military precision toward the voice. “You!” she yells. “You—you—you…idiot!”

            A very startled Sherlock looks at the older woman, mouth gaping.

            “Mrs. Hudson?” John’s voice virtually squeaks.

            The woman turns back to John and, seeing again how the last two years of stress, exhaustion, and grief have ravaged his face, she begins to weep.

            He moves to usher her into a chair, but she waves him off.

            “I…I need to go lie down,” she says. “I’ll talk to you boys in the morning. I need to gather myself before I deal with this.” As she walks to the door, she looks over at Sherlock, new tears leaking from her eyes, “I’m very glad to see you, darling boy, but I’m not very happy with you right now.”

            Lestrade walks the woman to the top of the stairs and starts conferring with one of the officers.

            Sherlock turns to John when Mrs. Hudson is gone, “John, what do they keep assuming you’ve done?” he asks.

            John looks at the man and tries to place his expression. _Curiosity?_ No, John’s familiar enough with that look. _Anger?_ No, he knows that one, too. _Concern? Does Sherlock have a ‘concerned’ expression?_

            “John, Sherlock, they’re getting ready to take the body,” Lestrade says as he walks back into the room. “Do you want to come and see if you know him before he’s carted off?”

            Out on the street a large crowd has formed behind the police tape. Sherlock stops, hesitating before leaving the building. He turns to John, not at all shocked to find him standing right behind him. “I’m not supposed to be alive, yet,” he says simply.

            “What do you mean, ‘yet’?” John asks, his eyes narrowing with speculation.

            Sherlock’s eyes carefully dart toward the open door, calculating the risks of walking out into the night air and waiting crowd. “Mycroft has the news set to print in the morning,” he explains. “It would be best if his story is the first one the public sees of me, not one where I’ve turned up alive and at the scene of a murder.”

            “Since when are you concerned about what the public thinks?” John asks. He shifts from one foot to the other, confused by of Sherlock’s line of thinking. “Besides, the retraction was printed almost a year ago. You were exonerated, Lestrade got his job back, and everyone had a day or two where they felt a little guilty about treating you like shite.”

            “Still wouldn’t look good,” Sherlock says. “And I care because _you_ care. At least you did.” His voice is soft, and he raises his hand to John’s shoulder, but, probably remembering the episode earlier, John thinks, he lets it drop back to his side. “Take my phone,” Sherlock says, reaching into his trouser pocket, “and take a picture of the man’s face—a good, _clear_ picture, John—and pictures of any significant markings on his body. See if he has a tattoo on his right external oblique. That should be enough for me to confirm his identity.”

            “You’re so sure you know who it is?” John asks.

            “I know who it should be—who the most logical suspect is, in any case,” Sherlock answers. “I’ll go to the morgue tomorrow for a more comprehensive look.” He catches John’s hand and places the phone in its grasp. Giving a quick squeeze, he lets it fall, then turns and climbs back up the stairs.

            _Did he just squeeze my hand?_ John thought. _What’s that about? Did it have anything to do with the kiss?_ In a rush John remembers the kiss. _Wait! What the bloody hell was_ that _about?_

            “John?” Lestrade is waiting for him in the doorway. “You coming?”

            Tucking those thoughts away for later examination, but thoroughly relieved to have his brain back online, John makes his way across the street.

            When he sees the man on the stretcher he immediately recognizes him as the tail from earlier. _He’s also probably the bloke who followed me around a couple weeks ago_ , John thought, recalling the tail he had coming home from the clinic the day Greg had come to see him. _He’s obviously ex-military_ , John thinks, noting the man’s physique and haircut, and remembering the way he carried himself and his apparent skill with a gun.

            “You know him?” Lestrade asks.

            “He looks a little familiar,” John acknowledges, taking a few pictures for Sherlock, including one of the tattoo the man does indeed have on his right side, “But I don’t know if that’s because we crossed paths while in the army, or if it’s because he’s been following me around the last few weeks.”

            Lestrade sighs heavily and shakes his head. “I didn’t know,” he says.

            “I didn’t tell anyone,” John admits.

 

            John heads back inside a few minutes later when the team starts to pack up, and Lestrade takes his leave, mentioning reports needing to be done back at the Yard.

            His feet feel heavy as he climbs the stairs. He’d worked a double just that day, _and the last time I slept was…huh, I don’t really remember when I last slept_ , he thinks. _That’s probably a bit not good._

            The door at the top of the stairs is open when he reaches it, and when he tries to close it John realizes that the Yarders broke it in their haste to get into the flat.

            “Have to fix that tomorrow, too,” he says out loud. He toes off one of his shoes and shoves it under the door, closing it for the night. He then notices his duffle bag next to the door. “Aw, Christ. The case in Norwich.” He was going to take the train that night so he could get an early start in the morning. With any luck, he’d hoped to be done in two, three days tops. Now he isn’t sure what to do.

            The lights from the cars out front are just fading when John makes his way into the sitting room. Still thinking about Norwich, John is caught off guard and deeply shaken when he sees Sherlock lying on the sofa, his hands clasped against his chin in his “Thinking Pose.”

             John inhales sharply, a thick lump forms in his throat, and tears burn his eyes. It is only then that John understands how close he was to giving up on his friend—how close he was to believing Sherlock was never coming back. Whether it was because he couldn’t or because he didn’t want to, doesn’t matter—either would have been just as devastating.

             John doubles over, hands on his thighs. He’s can’t catch his breath and the sense of terror that’s beginning to swirl around in his gut sends flares of heat up his spine. His breaths are coming in deep, audible gasps, and though he’s trying every trick his brief foray into therapy taught him to interrupt these attacks—from breathing in through the nose and exhaling through his mouth, to vigorously shaking out his hands—nothing is working.

            Sherlock, apparently deep in thought, only notices John’s distress when he hears his mobile phone clatter to the floor. He rolls off of the couch and crawls the few feet to where his friend is now kneeling on the floor, struggling to catch his breath.

            “John, you need to relax. It’s fine. Mind over matter, John. He’s dead,” Sherlock tries to calm John down.

            And as much as John appreciates it, and he does because, hell, it’s a rare occasion indeed that Sherlock attempts comfort, he’s missing the point. When it comes to dealing with emotion and sentiment, John knows, Sherlock always misses the point, and probably always will.

            Ten minutes later, John is sitting on the floor, his back against the door jam between the sitting room and the hallway, his head between his knees, and Sherlock is back on the couch after receiving John’s reassurance that he’ll be fine in a few minutes.

            Though his breathing has steadied, and he no longer feels like he’s going to be sick all over the floor, John is exhausted both mentally and physically, and his thoughts continue to race so fast he can’t keep up with them, but they leave in their wake the belief that it’s better if the kiss is a once and done event, no matter what it meant. He wouldn’t be able to cope if it meant something more to him, and he was sure it had meant nothing to Sherlock.

            A grunt at the door pulls both he and Sherlock from their individual deliberations. A second grunt ushers Mycroft into the flat. He glares down his nose at the shoe that prevented his clean entrance into the home, before he makes his way toward the sitting room, though John’s presence in the doorway prohibits his full admittance.

            “Brother, so good of you to let me know you arrived home safely,” he says nodding his head in Sherlock’s direction.

            “We had a bit of excitement earlier, Mycroft. I was a little busy,” Sherlock says, looking back at the ceiling.

            “Did you _know_?” John looks at Mycroft, pain evident in his eyes. “Of course you did! All of those times you came to visit, and you never _once_ thought to mention that he was alive?” John’s voice is wrecked, like he’s been screaming for hours, but he’s really only been doing that, and just in his head, for the last twenty or so minutes.

            “Ah, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft acknowledges him.

            John’s position on the floor affords Mycroft the opportunity to look down his nose at the man even more than usual. 

            “I had thought that, with my brother’s return, you would begin using the furniture again,” the older man continues. “Evidently I was mistaken.” He takes a moment to look around, noticing how little—in fact, how _nothing_ —in the flat has changed during his brother’s extended absence. “Though I must commend you on your…fastidious treatment of Sherlock’s belongings,” he says, calling attention to his observations.           

            Collecting what little energy he has remaining, John makes his decision, rises to his feet, and walks toward the front door where he picks up his duffle bag. “Right, well. I’m off.” He grabs his black coat from the hook. “I really don’t feel ready to be near either, much less the both of you. I have a case in Norwich that needs my attention,” he says, and before either of the Holmes brothers can say another word, he’s gone.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

 

          Sherlock is off of the couch before John’s foot leaves the last stair. For a brief moment he has the strangest urge to run after the man. Instead he stands at the window—the one that still has glass—and watches as John walks off, presumably towards the train station.

          Sherlock catalogues the doctor’s movements: the duffle hangs from John’s right shoulder ( _left causing him pain?_ ); the speed at which he walks indicates determination, resolve ( _anger? no, annoyance?_ ); but his gait is impeded by the limp ( _returned, then, but not as bad as before; for how long? and why no cane?_ ); and his head is down—he isn’t looking around ( _after all this time, has he forgotten he may be in danger?_ ). He is tired, Sherlock had seen that, and he is startlingly thin. _And where did those new creases in his face come from? And why did Mycroft…_ “

          Mycroft is talking: “You were supposed to come straight to me,” he is saying as he settles himself into John’s chair.

          “Yes, because I’m so good at doing as I’m ‘supposed’ to,” Sherlock lashes out. “Please tell me what I did to make you think I would start doing as I’m told, so I can be sure not to repeat it.” He turns to his brother, “Why did you do that?”

          “I can’t possibly know to what you’re referring, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, his voice sharp.

          After John disappears around the corner, Sherlock moves to sit in his chair. “You said something that annoyed him enough to leave. What was it?” Sherlock has felt out of his depth from the moment he entered the flat just a few hours before and it is trying his already not considerable patience.

          Mycroft waves his hand in the air as though, by his estimation, this conversation is obviously not worth having. “Oh, I suspect it was my comment on the manner in which he’s chosen to grieve. This flat has been virtually hermetically sealed since your disappearance.”

          Sherlock looks around the flat with new eyes. “That’s patently untrue. Look,” Sherlock indicates with his hand, “in the corner: a stack of folders. And next to it, a pile of newspapers.”

          “For someone who holds his own intelligence in such high esteem, you are awfully slow this evening, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, folding his hands in his lap. “Must we continue with this line of conversation?”

          Sherlock glares at the older man. At the moment nothing interests him more than discussing John. He rolls his eyes, Holmes for ‘clearly I’m not going to get my way, so just get on with it.’

          Mycroft pauses a moment, regarding Sherlock before he asks “What are you thinking about?”

          “Six—no, seven things. And nearly all of them are none of your business.” Sherlock is not a little surprised by Mycroft’s question. They’ve never had the kind of relationship that would invite that sort of inquiry. He’s immediately tempted to tell his brother about the kiss—to ask him what it means—but as soon as the thought is born, Sherlock rails against it. Besides, Mycroft would be as helpful answering that as bleach is at hiding bloodstains. So he turns his thoughts down a different road. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How easily Moran was taken down? How quickly this is over?”

          Mycroft looks past the younger man and towards the plastic-covered window. “It might seem easy and quick to you, Sherlock, but to others I can assure you it has been anything but.”

          “Is this normal?” Sherlock asks, his hand vaguely indicating the flat. “Is this how people normally…grieve?”

          “I highly doubt either of us is equipped to judge that, Sherlock. Mummy could hardly be considered ‘normal.’”

          “Neither is John,” Sherlock says softly.

          Mycroft raises an eyebrow in surprise. He clasps his hands under his chin and appraises Sherlock. “Quite,” he says after a few moments. “I suppose your Dr. Watson _does_ continue to prove himself to be anything but normal.”

          Sherlock is unsure what feeling Mycroft’s referring to John as ‘ _his_ Dr. Watson’ produces, but it unfurls warm and deep in his stomach. _It’s not a wholly unpleasant sensation_ , he thinks, but it is unknown, so he sidelines his analysis of it until later—Mycroft’s presence is never an opportune time to examine anything as unquantifiable as _emotions_ —and turns a considering eye on his brother.

          “You’re tense, and it’s not because of me. That’s why you behaved as you did toward John,” he deduces. “What’s going on?”

          “Yes, I suppose I was rather unkind, wasn’t I,” the older man says, quickly adapting to the direction the conversation is suddenly going. “But unless you’ve changed your stance on accepting cases from me, this is nothing about which you need to concern yourself.”

           A short while later, Mycroft gets up to leave, “Welcome home, Sherlock,” his only sentimental allowance, despite the two-year gap between the brothers’ meetings.

           Sherlock spends the rest of the evening taking a thorough inventory of the belongings he left behind:

  *       Clothing (asstd. pants, socks, trousers, shirts, jackets, pyjamas, dressing gowns) still in his room, tucked away in the wardrobe, and folded carefully in the dresser;
  *      +3 sachets ( _not his_ ), smelling of lavender presumably to keep the musty smell at bay ( _Mrs. Hudson?_ );
  *      1 Belstaff coat, still hanging on the back of the sitting room door ( _clean_ );
  *      7 boxes of case files organized by date, 4 on the bottom shelf of a bookcase, 2 on the floor inside his wardrobe, 1 by the side of his bed;
  *      Books on the shelves;
  *      Books on the floor;
  *      Books on his nightstand;
  *      Books, books, books;
  *      Asstd. lab equipment (incl. non-toxic, corrosive, and hazardous chemicals, microscope, beakers and phials, petri dishes, burners, pipettes, funnels, flasks, test tubes, etc.) covering the kitchen table, stored carefully in the cupboards, ( _alphabetized?_ ) on top of the refrigerator;
  *      1 Stradivarius violin (in case), on top of the desk in the sitting room;
  *      1 skull, still on the mantle;
  *      1 Cluedo board, affixed to wall w/ 1 dagger;
  *      1 yellow smiley (incl. bullet holes).



All he is missing is:

  *      1 Dr. John Watson



 

          Sherlock sits in his chair watching the clock on his phone. John is always chastising him for sending texts too late at night ( _“You can’t text Lestrade at 2am asking for a case, Sherlock.”_ ), but at what time can one safely begin to send texts in the morning?

          At precisely 6am he opens up a new message and sends it to John.

_Why didn’t you get rid of my things? -SH_

          Five minutes later he’s not received a response, so he sends another text, and another five minutes after that. And another. And another.

_Why did you leave last night? –SH_

_What’s the case in Norwich? –SH_

_Surely I could have been of assistance. –SH_

_Aren’t we supposed to talk? –SH_

_You were looking down when you left. Did you arrive safely? –SH_

_When did your limp return? –SH_

_We should talk. –SH_

_Why did you kiss me? –SH_

_Please. Talk to me. –SH_

 

          By 8am Sherlock still hasn’t heard from John. _Surely he’s awake by now_ , he thinks. Downstairs he can hear Mrs. Hudson puttering about, but when he goes down the stairs, hoping she’ll make him a cup of tea, she’s just locking her door behind her.

          “Oh, I’m sorry, dear,” she says when she sees him. “I hope you weren’t hoping for that chat this morning,” she says, looking apologetic. “I’m just off. I’ve started doing Tai Chi in the park. Why don’t you come for tea this afternoon? I’ll pop round the shop and pick us up something special,” she says, then whisks out the front door.

 

          Later he tries getting in touch with Lestrade.

_Do you have a case for me, yet? –SH_

          Half an hour later his phone pings:

_Give it a few months, mate. Wait ‘til things settle down._

          “This is ridiculous!” Sherlock throws the phone into his chair. “I’m just back from the dead! Does anyone care?” he yells before flinging himself dramatically onto the sofa. When he lands something small and annoying digs its way into his back. He roots around underneath him and pulls out a phone. _John’s phone. No_ wonder _he didn’t respond!_ Sherlock nearly laughs with relief. He unlocks the phone and examines the text message folder, noting his are the only texts John’s received in the last month. Sherlock also notes that under “recent calls” there are only a handful of calls, mostly incoming calls from the hospital or clinic, and the outgoing calls are all numbers Sherlock doesn’t recognize, and each was only ever dialed once.

          “Oh, John. What _have_ you been doing while I’ve been away?” Sherlock asks softly. He sits up and looks around the room, his eyes alighting first on the impressive volume of newspapers and then the stack of file folders in the corner by the door. He stretches out and grabs the first several folders off of the stack, then flips the top one open.

 _Case files!_ He recognizes the format instantly, but not the case. Checking the date on the top right-hand corner of the first page, Sherlock notices that it’s from just a few days ago. He flips open the next file, and it’s from a few days before that. _These are_ John’s _case files_ , he realizes. He gets up, walks over to the stack, then sits next to it. He begins piling them in reverse order until the earliest ones are on the top; the first one is from a month after he left.

          Soon after he begins reading the file, he pauses to get up and find a pen. Then, for the better part of the day, he carefully reads through each report, noting the flawed logic, hasty conclusions, and absurd leaps in assumptions John’s made in each case. Despite these, he’s generally impressed with John’s work, and there are quite a few moments when he would even consider himself proud.

          He’s surprised when Mrs. Hudson calls up the stairs at nearly five and announces that tea is almost ready. He hadn’t realized how long he’d spent on the floor reading.

          “Come in, Sherlock. Come in,” she ushers him into her kitchen a few minutes later. “Let me look at you.” She casts an appraising look up and down his frame. “You’ve always been slender, my boy, but this can’t be healthy,” she says, offering her judgment. “Let’s get some food in you.”

          “How was Tai Chi?” he asks after they’ve settled in with bacon sandwiches and tea. A plate of fresh scones sits off to the side, and Sherlock is looking forward to one, though he’s not sure if it’s because he’s hungry or if he’s suffering from a bout of nostalgia.

          The conversation is stilted for several minutes, the topics bland, the pauses long and uncomfortable.

          “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock very nearly whispers during one particularly awkward silence.

          The older woman, who had been sitting very still and straight, seems to melt. “Oh, Sherlock,” she says with a deep sigh as she reaches across the table, putting her hand on top of Sherlock’s. “I take it you had a very good reason?” she asks.

          “The best. I never would have done it otherwise,” he admits. He explains it as efficiently as he can. The snipers. The threat. Her, Lestrade, John. Moriarty’s ultimatum. He doesn’t go into detail about how he’s spent the last two years—she need not know what it took for him to come home—but by the time he’s done explaining why he did what he did, the older woman has tears running down her cheeks, one hand pressed against her lips, the other wrapped firmly around his own.

          When Sherlock is silent, she gets up and wraps her arms around his head, clutching him to her. After a minute she drops a kiss on the top of his curly hair, then returns to her seat. She wipes her face with her napkin, clears her throat, and smiles at him from across the table. “I’m very glad you’re home, dear,” she says with a hitch still in her voice. “Scone?”

          He chuckles softly and picks a pastry off the plate. “Mrs. Hudson,” he begins slowly a moment later, picking at the baked good. “What happened to John while I was away?”

          She tilts her head and looks at him thoughtfully, then looks down, evidently suddenly interested in her own hands. “That day,” she says quietly, “the day you…left. I lost both of my boys that day,” she says. A few remaining tears drop into her lap. “Greg, your brother, and I took turns sitting with him those first few weeks. He didn’t talk; he barely ate,” she says, looking up into Sherlock’s eyes. “I don’t know how much he slept, but sometimes I would sneak up in the middle of the night, just to make sure he was okay. Some nights he’d just be sitting in his chair staring at the floor. Or your coat. Other nights I could hear him in his room. You know he has nightmares, dear,” she says, patting his hand.

          Sherlock nods.

          “Greg and I were worried he would do something…foolish. Your brother thought we were being overdramatic, but he wasn’t around as much as Greg and I.” She shakes her head at the memory. “Then, after about three weeks, John went back to work, first at the clinic. Then he started working at the A&E. Then he started going on cases. After about a month the only time I saw him was either on his way in or out. And that’s how it’s been ever since.”

          “I didn’t know…” Sherlock says almost inaudibly. “I didn’t think he would be like that. I just thought,” he shrugs one shoulder feebly, “I just thought he’d move on.”

          “They used to say that people died from broken hearts. Well, John didn’t die from one, but he wasn’t really living with one, either.”

          Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but the older woman continued. “Oh, I know,” she says, waving off whatever comment he was about to make. “You two aren’t _together_ , but that man clearly loves you, Sherlock.”

          Sherlock wonders if Mrs. Hudson is right, and, if she is, what he’s going to do about it.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

           

          “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” John yells for what must be the tenth time in the last two hours. An affectionate couple snogging outside the train station pauses to scowl at him. He’s just arrived in Norwich, and is on his way to the hotel, when he begins lamenting again the idiocy of leaving his mobile at home when he’d vacated the flat in a huff. He’d also left behind his consulting detective, but he thinks maybe that was for the best.

          Thanks to John’s preplanning, he had thought to stuff the case file into his overnight bag when he packed this morning, which means he has all of the client’s information, including her phone number, so he can call her from the hotel. But no mobile means no texts from Sherlock, and now that the detective is back John desperately wants to stay in contact—no matter how confusing his feelings towards the man may be.

          He almost calls Sherlock when he gets to his room, but the younger man never answers the phone, save for texts, so John doesn’t bother. What would he say, anyway?

_“Hi, I know we haven’t spoken for two years, but I have a sudden urge to tell you where I am?”_

_“Hullo, unlike_ some _people I don’t leave and not let the other person know I’m all right?”_

_“Hey, you should come and spend a few days with me in Norwich?”_

_“Hi, I think I love you?”_

          John shakes his head, desperately trying to think of something besides confessing any significant emotions to his flatmate. Emotions, John suspects, will send his friend running, and he is doing everything in his power to keep that from ever happening again. Especially now that he’s just gotten Sherlock back. Well, not that he really _has_ Sherlock…but at least he is back at Baker St. At least he’d come home alive. Or at all.

 _Besides,_ John thinks as he pulls his pyjamas from the overnight bag, _there are all kinds of love. Of course I love him. We’ve spent a lot of time together. Been through some intense situations. That’s bound to create strong attachments. That doesn’t mean I want him._ He walks into the bathroom to brush his teeth. _I mean, it’s not like I get off on the thinking about touching his lips, or wondering what he tastes like, or imagining what his hands would feel like as they…_ John spits toothpaste into the sink. “Shit _._ ”

 _Shit, shit, shit_.

          He sits on the bed with a groan. _I love my bloody flatmate._

          John tries not to dwell on this newly realized fact for too long—he _does_ have a case to get to, and while the thought of returning home right now fills him with a bizarre mixture of dread and anticipation (though, admittedly, dread is winning out at the moment), he knows he can’t stay away forever. And his client certainly wouldn’t appreciate him dragging out her case.

          After setting the alarm, John turns out the light and climbs into bed. As he closes his eyes and wills himself to sleep, John vaguely remembers his mother saying something about things always looking better in the morning.

 

*

 

            _Things do not bloody well always look better in the morning_ , John thought the next day. He’d fallen asleep just about the same time the alarm next to the bed had gone off, and then he’d been subjected to a cup of tea that smelled like a spent fire and tasted no better ( _What respectable English inn serves bloody Lapsang Souchong?_ ).

            An hour later and he’s sitting in a sitting room evidently designed as a tribute to floral chintz. But his stormy mood is lifting because at least now he has a good cuppa warming his hands.

            Eileen Clark, his new client, is a sitting in a plump armchair, her hands in her lap unconsciously tearing a tissue into neat, narrow strips. Her eyes are darting around the room like a scared rabbit, and John’s noticed her attempt to take steadying breaths at least five times in the last few minutes. John estimates her to be in her mid-seventies, and judging by the pictures on the walls she has at least three children.

            John clears his throat. “Why don’t you walk me through what’s happening, Mrs. Clark,” John says, offering her a small, encouraging smile. Given the ring on her finger, John suspects she’s widowed. She’s of the generation that would never speak ill of her spouse, so John's clearly not here for the standard cheating husband job. No, if her husband was alive, he would be there to support her.

            “Yes, right. Well, I got a letter in the mail about a week ago. Someone took…something from my house,” she explains, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. “And now this person wants a significant amount of money to ensure its safe return. More money than I have access to. My friend, Jean, said you took care of a similar problem for her about a month ago. She was the one who recommended I call.”

            John puts his teacup down on the coffee table. “All right. A couple of questions, okay?” he asks. When she nods he continues. “First, do you still have the letter?”

            “Oh, yes!” Mrs. Clark gets up quickly, walks over to the roll top desk in the corner and, after shuffling some paperwork around, comes back with the letter in her hand. “I even kept the envelope. I know sometimes that can help.”

            “Well done!” John smiles at her again and nods. He reads through the letter quickly, acknowledging the blackmailer’s monetary demands and taking note of the already determined meeting time and place the following evening.

 _Short timeframe_ , John thinks. He tries not to let Mrs. Clark see his apprehension. “Do you have a lot of people in the house?” he asks. “Visitors, workers, repairmen?” His tone is deliberately light and conversational.

            “Practically no one!” she seems almost excited to admit.

            Ordinarily this would bother John, thinking the woman might be lonely, but that she doesn’t have many people around certainly helps limit the pool of suspects, so he pushes his concern aside.

            “Really, I think I’ve narrowed it down to three men. Well, two really,” she says. “A few weeks ago my clothes washer broke. It flooded the kitchen, so I had to have someone in to fix the washer, and another to lay down new flooring. The third man is the electrician who came in to make sure the wiring wasn’t water damaged, but I doubt it was him. I’ve known Paul for years,” she adds quickly.

         “You’re doing my job for me, Mrs. Clark!” John chuckles before adding “How about the other two men? Do you know them?” When she shakes her head, he continues. “Do you happen to know their names?”

          “No,” she sounds disappointed. “But I can give you the information for the companies they work for?”

          “That’d be very helpful,” John says. “Now, can you tell me what was taken?”

          Mrs. Clark looks down at her hands in her lap. “It’s a…personal item,” she says quietly.

          “I understand. It would be awfully useful to know what exactly I’m trying to retrieve, though, Mrs. Clark. It says a lot about the motives of whoever took it.”

          The older woman begins to sniff and brings a shred of tissue up to dab at her red-rimmed eyes. “My daughter, Denise, she didn’t have an easy time growing up,” Mrs. Clark begins. “She never fit in, always felt uncomfortable with herself. Well, now she’s got a job in Parliament,” Mrs. Clark glances up, her face full of pride. “But she’s a conservative, and I’m afraid her career would be over if this item was made known to the public.”

           John’s trying to deduce what that item might be, but he’s not Sherlock, so he’s left confused.

           Mrs. Clark then seems to make a sudden decision. She sits up straight and looks John in the eye. “About a decade ago Denise had a sex change operation. Her name used to be Dennis. The thief-turned-blackmailer took photos of her from during that time, photos that charted her progression from man to woman.”

           John tries to hide the look of surprise on his face, but ( _according to Sherlock_ ), he isn’t a very good actor and Mrs. Clark sees it plainly ( _Sherlock who always has to be ruddy right_ ).

          “Jean said you were very discreet about her situation, and you didn’t involve the police. I hope you can give this situation the same consideration.”

          “Of course I will, Mrs. Clark. No question about that,” he reassures her.

          A few minutes later, armed with the blackmail letter and the receipts from the jobs that were done a few weeks ago—receipts that, both John and Mrs. Clark were delighted to realize, included not only the company information but the first names of workers the company sent—John leaves Mrs. Clark’s house and makes his way to an internet café ( _because of_ course _he’d forgotten his laptop, too. Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ ).

          The next part isn’t hard, but it is tedious. A quick check of the flooring company’s website provides him with the name Tom Wood. It is also easy to identify Patrick Ferguson, the man who fixed the washing machine, who runs an appliance repair business with his brother, Seamus.

          The next part isn’t hard, either, but it’s probably highly illegal.

          Soon after moving in with Sherlock, during The Great Languish, as John likes to refer to the week Sherlock refused to get off of the sofa—not even to shower—the detective had asked John to do some research on a suspect in one of his cases. Research that required information for the Met’s eyes only. Sherlock, though, was not deterred. He simply had John log into the Met's database using Lestrade’s details, then rattled off the information he needed.

          John, still in possession of that login information, uses it liberally when he is on a case. Such as now, when he looks up both Patrick Ferguson and Tom Wood. Both, John learns quickly, have a couple of ASBOs to their name, mostly for public drunkenness, one for vandalism for Mr. Ferguson, and for Mr. Wood one for harassment and one for abusive behaviour.

          Several hours later, near closing time and in danger of being thrown out, John has the home address and phone numbers of both men (including a second address in Wymondham for Mr. Ferguson), a printout of their criminal histories, and copies of their driver’s licenses. He gathers all of the information into the case file folder and heads off to find something quick to eat.

 

*

 

          In the end, identifying the culprit is almost shockingly effortless. It’s certainly not a case John would be proud to discuss with Sherlock. Mrs. Clark was elated to learn it had been the envelope that gave the blackmailer away. The postal code indicated that it had been mailed from Wymondham, nine days prior, on a day that John can place Tom Wood in London getting collared for soliciting a prostitute.

          So, two days after getting into Norwich, a day and a half after ascertaining who the criminal is, a day after following said criminal around, and roughly twelve hours after gathering all of the information he needs, John sits in the back booth of a dimly lit pub, drinking a pint, and waiting for Patrick Ferguson to arrive.

          At precisely 10pm, the small-statured man with ginger hair and darting eyes walks into the pub. John, who’s been following the man for the past day, recognizes him instantly, but tries to keep his expression in check.

          John has learned, having worked more than a few blackmail cases over the last year, that these kinds of offenders respond well to drama, a subject on which he happens to be an expert. He’s chosen for this occasion, then, to wear his one good black suit, a rich, blood-red dress shirt, and a plain black tie.

          “Mr. Ferguson,” John says, his voice firm, as the man makes his way to the back of the pub, looking for Mrs. Clark.

          Ferguson stops and looks around, perhaps checking to see if some other Ferguson responds to John. When no one does, he walks over to where John is seated.           

          “Please, sit down.” John gestures to the seat across from him.

          “I—I’m waiting fer somebody,” Ferguson stammers. He looks over his shoulder, back toward the door.

          “I think you’ll find _I_ am that somebody, Mr. Ferguson. My client won’t be joining us.”

          “Your cli…? Your client? Ah, bloody buggering ‘ell,” the man says, then collapses into the other side of the booth.

           John’s surprised by the reaction. _That was easy. No fight? No denial?_ John decides to go on with his speech, anyway. “Mr. Ferguson, I am not a police officer, but I do have friends in very high places ( _well, I say friends…_ ). If you’ll just hand over that which you stole from my client, I think you’ll find I can be very forgiving.”

          “And if I don’t?” Ferguson asks. ( _Ah, there’s some resistance._ )

          John opens the folder that’s been sitting on the table, then turns it around to show Ferguson a series of pictures. “I think your wives will be very interested to hear my story,” John says, then flips a few more pages. “And I think your brother might be more than concerned about how well you treat _his_ wife.”

          Ferguson leans back in his seat and breathes a colossal sigh. “You’ve just all but signed me death certificate, mate,” he says.

 _Ah, and there’s the requisite drama_ , John thinks. “Mr. Ferguson, I can assure you that as long as you return what you…borrowed, and safely, that none of this information will be revealed.”

          Ferguson shifts forward and rests his face in his hands. “You don’t understand, mate. I was never gonna give the old lady back ‘er pictures. I was just gonna take ‘er money and run.” He scrubs his hands roughly over his face before continuing. “Yer not the only…buyer, mate. It was a twofer deal, right? Some bloke hired me to snatch and grab them pictures and hand ‘em over to ‘im. Then I thought ‘ey, she’s just a little old lady, I can probably scam ‘er outta some money, too. Only now there’s you. And them pictures,” he says looking down again at the pictures in front of him.

          “Do you have my client’s belongings with you, Mr. Ferguson?” John asks. He’s suddenly very tired and keen to wrap this up.

          “Of course, mate. I’ve ‘ad ‘em on me since I snatched ‘em,” he says, then pulls an envelope out of the inside of his coat. He tosses the envelope on the table. “Don’t matter what I do now,” he says. “Either that bloke ‘as me killed, or my wife, my other wife, my brother, or _his_ wife will,” he finishes with another heavy sigh.

           John picks the envelope up off of the table, flips through its contents quickly to verify that they’re all there, the looks back at Ferguson. “For your sake, Mr. Ferguson, I hope you’re right. Because if I find out that these pictures are revealed, or that you’ve made copies, I’ll know who to blame,” John’s voice lowers to a menacing whisper, “and I’ll come back and do what they don’t.”

            As he walks out of the pub, John’s anxiety disperses when he hears from behind him: “Goddamn it. Copies!”

 

*

           

            The next afternoon, after dropping off Mrs. Clark’s pictures, picking up his fee, and catching the train back to London, John is walking home thinking about Sherlock and their impending conversation, when a familiar black sedan pulls up.

           “Care for a lift?” Anthea says as the window is rolled down.

            Ordinarily John would ignore the woman in her sleek black car.

            Ordinarily John would say “piss off.”

            Ordinarily walking the distance between the train station and the flat isn’t too much of a strain.

            But John is tired, his leg is cramping, and he’s thinking about seeing Sherlock again after too bloody long.

            So, while John ordinarily would say no, he doesn’t this time. And this time is exactly when he should have.

            Because ordinarily Anthea wouldn’t be waiting to stick a syringe full of liquid into his neck.

            But this time she is.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I need to warn you that torture is coming.  
> It's pretty light here (Can you have light torture?).  
> Next chapter won't be, though.

Chapter Seven

 

            “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Sherlock yells for the first time—he does, after all, loathe repeating himself. This is not, however, the first time he’s lamented John’s having left his mobile behind after his ill-conceived departure from Baker St. Indeed, over the last thirty-six hours Sherlock has thought about this blunder on countless occasions. So much so that’s it’s gone from being a minor inconvenience to a full-blown tragedy.

            Sherlock flings himself onto the sofa and clutches his dressing gown tightly to him, but with no one there to witness his histrionic display, the move fails to calm him. His current distress can also partly be blamed on the army of reporters and spectators camped outside the flat desperate for a glimpse of the recently resurrected genius—an army that has prevented his leaving since his arrival the night before last.

            “I should have stayed dead,” he mumbles into the back of the sofa. _But no_ , he thinks, _if I was still dead I couldn’t have returned to John. John who is_ “Not HERE!” he yells. _But John who, if Mrs. Hudson is to be believed, loves me. But do I love John?_

            Sherlock launches off the couch and steps over the coffee table in pursuit of the Dictionary on the far bookshelf.

 

            Love, noun \ˈləv\:

           1 (a): strong affection for another arising out of kinship or personal ties.

_Well, yes, certainly that has some truth to it_ , Sherlock think as he begins pacing. _As “personal ties“ suggests friendship, I suppose that definition would imply that John loves me._ He stops pacing and looks up. “But that would also imply that I love HIM, which is obviously impossible.”

           

            He continues reading:

            (b): affection based on admiration, benevolence, or common interests.

            _We_ do _share an affinity for the work_ , Sherlock thinks, glancing over at John’s pile of case files. _And “benevolence” seems to be part of John’s genetic makeup. Does my own paucity of kindness preclude my potential love of John?_

 

             (c): attraction based on sexual desire: affection and tenderness felt by lovers.

_Does John desire me? Sexually? Do I—can I desire him?_

             Sherlock thinks about the times he’s wanted to kiss John when he smiles, and then kiss him when he scowls, just to see if the kisses taste different. _But surely that’s just in the interest of scientific experimentation, right?_

             And those times he’s felt the sudden coil of heat unwind deep in his belly whenever John lays a fleeing suspect out flat with a fist, or dodges a knife in a fight before downing the attacker with swift, economical force— _surely that’s just adrenalin_. 

             And his appreciation for the way John’s shirts cling to his deceptively muscular form after he’s taken off his jumper? _Is that desire?_

             And his yearning to fold John up inside him; to tuck him safely away within his ribcage; to interlace their arteries, the webs of their nervous systems, so that telling whose from whose is no longer possible? What can be made of that?

 

            2: warm attachment, enthusiasm, or devotion.

 

            Sherlock walks back over to the bookshelf and reaches for the Thesaurus, opening it directly on top of the dictionary.

            Synonyms for attachment:

  1. friendship, connection, affection
  2. extension, add-on, appendage



 

           “Yes!” Sherlock yells. _Yes, this is close! Our friendship has already been verbally acknowledged. And he is an “extension” of me. Like an arm or a leg—no, no. Something far more necessary.  Like a lung, or a…a heart? Life without him wouldn’t be unimaginably difficult._ “Life without him would be impossible,” Sherlock nearly whispers. “But is it love?”

            He tosses the Thesaurus into his chair and returns to the dictionary once more.

 

            3: unselfish, loyal, and benevolent concern for the good of another.

 

            Sherlock smiles. “This is John,” he says quietly. Then, thinking about his step off of the St. Bart’s roof two years ago, he admits to himself “and, if it’s in relation only to John, maybe this is me, too.”

            He sits down in his chair, on top of the forgotten Thesaurus. _Is it possible to fall in love without even knowing what the definition of love is?_

 

*

 

 _Kidnapped_ , John remembers as he wades his way back into consciousness _. I guess this makes Sherlock’s return official._

            His head is pounding, and his mouth feels dry and stale.

            He keeps his eyes closed—if his captors are around, he wants to wait as long as possible before alerting them that’s he’s awake. He listens closely, but all he hears is the sound of his own breathing.

            When John opens his eyes, it’s to a darkness so pervasive and heavy he fears for several long, panicky moments that he’s gone blind. Soon, though, after his eyes adjust to the near absence of light, he can make out the very faint seam of the bottom of a door a few inches from his feet. It’s really just a lighter shade of black, just enough of a difference to reassure him.

            The room he’s been locked up in is cold and wet, and it smells like mould.

            He’s curled on his side in the foetal position on a damp concrete floor. Before deeming it safe to move, he runs his hands over his body, attempting to assess potential injury. Aside from the headache that throbs under his fingers when he brings them to his temples, he feels relatively unharmed. He stretches out slowly, but his feet hit the wall before his legs are straight. When he stretches his hands above his head, he finds the wall there, again too quickly.

 _Wonderful. No way to lie flat out,_ he thinks.

            He puts one hand on the wall, then slowly moves into a crouch, his balance affected by the hammering in his head. He moves to stand, but before he’s fully upright, his head meets the ceiling with a crack.

            “Oh, _fuck_!” he says as quietly as possible. His voice bounces off the too-close walls, the reverberation loud in his ears. If someone is around, they surely heard that.

            With one hand on the wall, and one hand out in front of him, John shuffles around the room he’s in, shoulders and head hunched forward. Not that it’s much of a room, really. No, it’s much more of a closet, or a cell. Using his own 5’6” frame as a measuring unit, John calculates the space to be a cube—about five feet on each side. In the corner closest to the door John finds two buckets: one full of water, the other empty. And that’s it. Nothing else.

            _Christ, I’m in for it, aren’t I?_ he thinks.

             John sits down in the corner the farthest from the door, his arms drawing his knee to his chest to ward off the chill. While the downside to Sherlock’s homecoming may be John’s capture, one of the myriad benefits is that the detective is now around to find him. _So, really, all I have to do is stay alive_ , he thinks.

            All things considered, he was in a far better situation now than he was the last time he was kidnapped. Just a few months after he’d started taking cases—three or four months after Sherlock disappeared—he’d overlooked the fact that his current client’s boyfriend was a fairly high-ranking drug dealer. A stupid oversight. John was beaten for four days before he finally managed to free one of his hands from the nylon ropes that bound him to a chair.

            He’d barely walked out of there alive, and though he had a few new scars to remind him of the close call, he _had_ walked out.

            But with Sherlock back, he was sure he’d be back home for tea.

            In the meantime, John tries to run through what he can remember from his army hostage training. He ends up getting frustrated when so many of the instructions involve contact with his abductors. All he knows is that Anthea is working for them, and since he’d known this wasn’t Mycroft’s doing from the very moment he felt the needle jab into his neck, he was left clueless as to who…

            _Who would have the power to get to Anthea? Or plant her? And what could they possibly want from him?_

            Faced with the frustration of having more questions than answers, John goes back to thinking about his hostage training. He isn’t capable of appealing to his captor’s sense of humanity or trying to communicate with them, as the seminar had suggested, so John is left with few options. He has to stay positive—he remembers that clearly from the training. He also has to stay fit. He has to keep his mind active. And he has to try to keep track of time.

            So John starts counting.

            _1…2…3…_

 

*

 

            Well into day three of John’s self-imposed absence, Sherlock is working on recalibrating his lab equipment when he suddenly groans. “What _is_ love, anyway!” he yells at the empty flat. “It’s been the cause of a hundred wars. It’s been the origin of thousands of battles. Millions have committed monstrous crimes, all in the name of love. Why would I want any part of that?” He pushes away from the kitchen table, running his hands through his hair. He paces around for a few minutes.

            _Love is a weakness. One in which I can’t allow John to indulge_ , he thinks, sitting back down at the table.

 

*

           

            … _17,657…17,658…17,659…_

            The black room remains quiet; John has not heard or seen anyone since waking up.

            He lost count around eight thousand when he thought he saw a shadow pass over the lighter black strip of light indicating where the door is. But nothing happened. So John just started counting again.

            _…17,682….17,683…17,684…_

 

*

 

             Sherlock looks out the front window, glaring down at the crowd gathered outside of 221 Baker. If anything, their numbers have grown since he last checked.

             John’s been gone for four days.

             Sherlock feels trapped.

             He needs to either get out of the flat or blow it up.

             In the end he crawls through the window in John’s room, then climbs down a fire escape about a block away from the flat.

             He dashes out a text to Lestrade. 

_Going to the morgue to identify the body, as you’ve no doubt failed to do so. –SH_

             Maybe he’ll stop at Tesco’s on the way home. They’re nearly out of John’s favourite tea.

 

*

           

_…42,053…42,054…42,055…_

          John realizes his measurement of time is flawed. He’s losing count with greater frequency, and there are spans of time unaccounted for when he falls asleep.

          But he doesn’t stop. He can’t help but think Sherlock might like to know how many seconds it took for him to find John.

_...42,067…42,068…42,069…_

           

*

 

            Sherlock has determined that, according to John’s records, the average case takes John four days to solve. Knowing how offended John can get whenever people underestimate him, Sherlock waits until day six to track John down to see what’s causing his delay in coming home.

            He pulls up a map of Norwich on his laptop. He knows John’s leg was causing him problems, so he wouldn’t want to walk far, and he wouldn’t want to waste money on a cab—not when he would, no doubt, have to get one to go to the client’s the next morning. And he wouldn’t be familiar with the local bus schedule, so, John would have stayed in a hotel by the train station. Knowing John wouldn’t waste money on a hotel room, not when he’s slept in a tent in the middle of a desert war, Sherlock calls the cheapest hotel that’s close to the train station.

            “Hullo, I’m sorry to trouble you,” Sherlock says, his voice smooth and bright. “But could you tell me if you have a Dr. John Watson registered?”

            “Oh, let me check,” a young woman’s voice on the other end says. Sherlock hears paper rustling in the background. “No, it doesn’t look like it.”

            “Are you sure? I was sure he told me he was staying there. He would have checked in on Tuesday last.”

            “Hm…” the woman intones. “Oh, yes. But Dr. Watson checked out Thursday. He’s no longer here,” she answers.

            Sherlock hangs up abruptly.

            _Something is wrong. Do you know where John is? –SH_

Less than two minutes later, Mycroft is walking up the stairs to the flat.

            “I was already on my way,” he says when he sees Sherlock pacing in the sitting room, tension etched into his face.

            Sherlock’s concern deepens when he takes in his brother’s appearance. He looks shaken, his requisite umbrella is nowhere to be seen, and his jacket and waistcoat look uncharacteristically wrinkled.

            “Something’s happened, Sherlock.”

 

*

 

            Somewhere around eighty-three thousand ( _Was that the third time he’s counted that high? Or the fourth?_ ) John loses track once again when it occurs to him that Sherlock might not even be looking for him. Might not even know he’s been taken.

            The thought prompts him to bang against the door, then kick it, then scream at it. He doesn’t know how long he spends doing so, but when he finally stops, his clothes are soaked through with sweat, his throat burns, and he feels drained. Empty.

            But still nothing happens.

            The door stays closed.

            No one comes.

            _1…2…3…_


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requisite warning for torture

Chapter Eight

 

            “I’ve seen the footage, Sherlock.” Mycroft is slumped over in Sherlock’s chair, his head resting in his hands. “Anthea picked him up outside the station,” he says. “But I didn’t ask her to do so.” 

            Sherlock paces in front of the sofa, trying very hard to ignore John’s empty chair. “And why is it that we’re just finding this out now?” he asks.

            “Anthea asked for a few days off. John was supposed to be in Norwich. We had no reason to be suspicious of anything.”

            “Why are you suspicious now, then? What made you go looking?”

            “Anthea didn’t respond to my text,” Mycroft responds. The room fills with a weighty silence.

            “I take it you’ve expanded the parameters of your surveillance search?” He doesn’t look at Mycroft. He already knows the answer, but he has to ask.

            “We haven’t been able to locate them on any CCTV cameras, and the GPS in the car was disabled before John was picked up.” Mycroft sighs forcefully before continuing. “And, evidently, satellite imaging was down for maintenance at the time. They just…vanished, Sherlock.”

            The younger man turns abruptly to glare at Mycroft. “It’s a wonder you were able to find any footage of them at all,” Sherlock says. 

            Mycroft interprets the subtext immediately. “Obviously, we were…permitted,” he grimaces, “to see exactly what we were meant to see.”

            “At the risk of inflating your already dangerously overblown ego, Mycroft, this sort of failure in security doesn’t happen to you. You’re above this. Am I to believe that you were unaware of this threat? That someone out there has the capacity to endanger you and your operations? And that you weren’t even aware of it?”

            Mycroft sits back in the chair and rubs a hand across his forehead. “There have been…signs. But only over the last few weeks. There was no indication a threat like this existed until a month ago when a new player entered the game. A player with not insignificant resources.”

            Sherlock stops pacing when he reaches the window again. “This isn’t a game, Mycroft,” he says quietly. “Not anymore.” He stares through the glass, but he can’t see anything.

 

*

 

_…65,332…65,333…65,334…_

            John’s water bucket has been empty for close to one hundred thousand seconds ( _give or take, hell, several thousand?_ ), and the contents of the second—at one time empty—bucket are starting to make the air hard to breathe. This is not helped by the fact that around forty-three thousand seconds ago he started shaking with deep, wracking coughs that make him wheeze and shudder.

_…65,345…65,346…65,347…_

            The cold moisture in the room has leached into his skin, his bones, his lungs. He hasn’t been able to lie down flat since his arrival here, and his legs ache from the constriction, but that’s less of a problem now that he curls into himself as tightly as he can, trying to conserve what little heat his body produces.

            He has also started seeing things in the blackness surrounding him.

            … _65,357…65,3…_ In the corner he sees a familiar face. “Sherlock?” he whispers. John shakes his head. “I really am going crazy now.”

            Without any warning the door by John’s feet opens. A hand reaches into the darkness to drag him out, and all at once John is reborn into a world of light and pain.

 

*

             

            When Mycroft left the flat two days ago it had been under the guise of continuing his search for John. He promised Sherlock that he would be kept apprised of any new and relevant information.

            Sherlock hasn’t heard from Mycroft since.

            He spends the first day waiting in the flat, wanting to be there when John comes home.

            He listens carefully for John’s firm, measured footsteps on the stairs.

            He walks over to the window to look out, willing John into view.

            He studies John’s files again, trying to discern whether any of his past cases can be linked with the current situation. What he finds, instead, is a portrait of the man John has become in the last two years: the man who created these case files is shrewd; he acts impulsively, but he’s meticulous, thorough, in his research; _he’s also willing to take any and every case, no matter how idiotic or obvious._

 

            That night he finally goes up to John’s bedroom. He opens the door slowly, an irrational fear of being discovered somewhere he isn’t supposed to be gnawing at his brain.

 _Come home and yell at me, John_ , Sherlock silently dares.

            He walks around the space, carefully reading John’s habits in the room’s contents. _Did laundry three days before he left. Doesn’t wear pyjamas anymore? Or didn’t sleep between doing laundry and leaving? The lack of personal possessions, along with the room’s state of cleanliness, suggests he spends little time here. He’s only bought a few pairs of socks in the last two years—everything else is that old or older._

            When he gets to the bed, Sherlock kneels down next to it, running his hands over the duvet ( _Still made with military precision_.) He lays his head down, breathing in deeply a scent that is purely John.

            He doesn’t intend to fall asleep, but he wakes a few hours later with a terrible cramp in his neck and the profound and aching familiarity of being entirely and utterly alone.

 

*

 

            John is dragged across the cold, concrete floor before being manhandled into a metal chair and tied securely to it. Even with his eyes firmly shut, the light from the room burns, and tears ooze out from beneath his eyelids.

            “Happy anniversary, Dr. Watson,” a woman’s voice echoes around him; it’s the first time he’s heard someone else speak in a week. John tries to open his eyes, but the light blinds him. _A week. Sherlock must be close_ , he thinks. _He must be_.

            “Two years ago today Sherlock leapt off of the hospital roof,” the woman continues. “We have quite the celebration planned for you.”

 

*

 

            Unable to even consider spending another day doing nothing but waiting, Sherlock, aided by the fact that, over the last few days the legion of reporters outside Baker St. started to dwindle, no doubt due to a decided dearth of Sherlock sightings, leaves Baker St. in search of something—anything—to keep his mind occupied. He ends up in the one place he knows he can always be of service.

            Which is why he is now sitting in Lestrade’s office, his feet up on the older man’s desk, waiting for the DI to return, undoubtedly with a fresh cup of coffee.

            “I have more paperwork than God, so don’t bother me unless it’s an emergency,” Lestrade says as he comes through his office door backwards. He closes the door and lowers the blinds with a heavy sigh.

            “Assuming God does exist, and that’s assuming quite a lot, what makes you think he’d have a lot of paperwork?” Sherlock asks, making the DI jump. “I’m not sure the metaphor is working,” he continues.

            Lestrade, whose shirt is now doused in hot coffee (the direct result of being startled _again_ by Sherlock Holmes) reaches for a stack of paper napkins on his desk and begins to blot the worst areas on his shirt. “I don’t have time for this right now,” he says through tight lips and without looking up.

            Sherlock’s distracted energy is barely contained: his eyes dart around the room looking for something interesting to keep him engaged; he takes his feet off the desk only to cross his legs, then lowers his feet to the floor where his legs bounce frenetically; his hands move from resting against his chin, to rubbing his thighs, to tapping out an indistinguishable rhythm on the arms of the chair.

            “I…I need…” he starts saying.

            “I don’t give a flying fuck what you need, Sherlock.” Lestrade drops down into his chair and starts organizing the paperwork on his desk. He barely looks up, but he catches the movement, recognizes this twitchiness. He’s seen it before—seen it in _Sherlock_ before. “Ah, Christ Sherlock. What’ve you done? What’d you take?”

            “What?” Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes. “Oh, for…I’m _clean_ , Lestrade.”

            “In that case,” the older man says, returning to the mess on his desk, “get out.” 

            “It’s John,” Sherlock tries to explain.

            “Has he finally come to his senses and moved out?” Lestrade huffs a humourless laugh. “I don’t blame him. Not one bit.”

            “As always, Lestrade, you fail to understand what’s really going on.”

            Lestrade looks up from the paperwork he’s been sorting through, his eyes flashing with anger. “Maybe that’s because you always refuse to fill anyone in on what’s going on inside that bloody big head of yours!” he yells.

            “Simplifying even a tenth of what goes on in my brain enough for you to comprehend is virtually impossible,” Sherlock bites back.

            “You don’t get it, do you. You really don’t.” Lestrade looks at the younger man and shakes his head. “You know what I did this morning? Do you even know what today is?”

            Sherlock sighs. “Given the mud on your shoes, the pollen on your right cuff, and the fact that you were nearly twenty minutes late to work despite taking a cab—the receipt for which is in front of you—I suspect you were at the graveyard, though why remains a mystery, even to me.”

            Lestrade stares at the younger man for a moment. “It’s been two years, Sherlock. Two years today. And even though I know, I _know_ , you’re alive, I went to your grave. I saw you at the flat, and I still went.” He pauses and scrubs his hands over his face. “You can’t just erase the last two years. You have no idea what you’ve done. No clue what happened because you decided to play dead.”

            Sherlock leans forward quickly, placing his hands on the DI’s desk. “If you think for one _second_ that I didn’t do everything in my power to prevent that situation, you’re more stupid than I thought,” Sherlock says, his eyes blazing. “But I know you’re not entirely without intelligence, so I’ll say this only once: My pretending to be dead was the only thing—the _only_ thing—that saved you, Mrs. Hudson, and John from very real, _very_ permanent deaths.” Sherlock gets up from his chair and walks to the window. “In the end, the decision to jump off of that roof wasn’t hard. And were the situation to repeat itself, I’d do the exact same thing.”

            “I had no idea, Sherlock,” Lestrade says, following the younger man’s movement. “But I wish you’d told me. We could have thought of something.”

            “Do you honestly believe that I wanted to leave my life behind? A life that, for the first time, made me _happy_?” Sherlock turns around to look at the DI. “No, I ran through every scenario. This was the one that had the best possible result. It was my life for yours, Mrs. Hudson’s and John’s.” Sherlock turns back to the window. “And now? Now it was all for nothing.” Below him, people are going about their daily routines, walking fast under the false notion that whatever they’re on their way to do actually matters, their umbrellas outstretched against the soaking rain, mobiles attached to their ears as they have inconsequential conversations.

            “He’ll come back,” Lestrade is saying when Sherlock turns back around. “God help him, but he’ll always come back to you.”

            “Not this time, I’m afraid,” Sherlock says. He sighs as he returns to the seat across the desk from Lestrade. “He’s been abducted.”

            The DI shifts forward in his chair. “What do you mean abducted? You mean John’s been kidnapped?”

            “Yes, ‘kidnapped’ is an appropriate synonym for ‘abducted’, Lestrade.”

            “How? When? How long? How do you know?”

             Sherlock begins to explain. “They’ve had him for a week…”

 

 

*

 

           Finally opening his eyes provides John with little new information. He’s been placed in the centre of a circle of light, powerful flood lamps surrounding him on all sides. He can’t see much beyond the light, but he can tell from the floor and the ceiling high overhead, as well as the echoing quality of the sounds around him, that he’s in a large room. The only person he can see is a large man, at least six-and-a-half feet tall and close to eighteen stone of pure muscle, standing at parade rest next to him. “Another empty warehouse,” John says, his voice jagged and rasping after a week of near-silence. “And I thought I’d seen them all.”

           The back of a meaty hand smacks the side of his head. Lights flash in his vision, a tinny whine rings in his ears, and the coppery taste of blood fills his mouth.

           A woman appears from beyond the edge of the black. She’s dressed in a strictly-tailored black business suit, the skirt hitting just below her knee. Her dark hair is pulled back into a severe French pleat, and her cocoa coloured skin nearly glows under the bright lamplight. “Let me introduce myself, Dr. Watson. I’m Ms. White, and it would be best if you kept your comments to yourself,” she says. “Dominic,” she nods at the man standing to John’s left. “Dr. Watson hasn’t had the opportunity to stretch his legs in quite a while. Why don’t you help him.”

           The man grabs John’s hands from behind his back and unties the rope binding him to the chair. He’s then hauled out of the chair and dragged across the floor where the ropes still tied to his wrists are attached to a long metal bar. Once securely fastened, the man pulls on a thick metal chain, which causes the bar to rise, and rise, and rise, until only the very tips of John’s shoes scrape the floor. Pain erupts in his shoulder, but he refuses to acknowledge it. Allowing them to see his pain will only give them more power.

           Next, Dominic circles another rope around John’s neck and tosses it over the bar. He pulls the rope until it narrows John’s breath down to a slow, uneven trickle.

           “I’m sure you’ve read the research, Dr. Watson,” Ms. White addresses him. “Increased levels of CO2 produce higher pH levels, which, in turn, triggers a strong fear response.” The woman walks over and stands within inches of John’s face. “You can be as brave as you want, Dr. Watson. It will make breaking you so much more fun.”

           The first hit lands solidly in John’s solar plexus, and breathing, which was already difficult due to his coughing and his positioning, becomes nearly impossible. The next punch along his jaw renews the sparks of light in his sight. John doesn’t keep track of the strikes after that. He searches for a way to disconnect his mind from his body—he’s done it before.

           “Did you know Sherlock was alive?” Ms. White asks when Dominic stops, slick with sweat and breathing hard and fast. “Did he tell you; or did he just…disappear?”

            John doesn’t respond. He keeps looking for the trigger that will let him leave his body behind.

           “Do you think he left you because you’re boring? Or is it because you were useless?” the woman moves on. “Or is it because he couldn’t trust you?”

           John lowers his chin to his chest and tries to breathe as deeply as he can. He tunes the woman out, and grasps at something—anything—that will allow him to focus his mind elsewhere.

_1…2…3…_

           “What’s he doing?” John hears the woman asks a few moments later.

           “He’s…he’s counting, Miss.” Dominic responds.

           “Make him stop.”

           The man disappears into the darkness and returns with a length of fabric and a roll of silver tape. He wads the fabric into a ball and shoves it into John’s mouth, then covers his mouth with a thick piece of tape.

           “I hope you don’t think Mr. Holmes is planning on saving you, Dr. Watson. He clearly has better things to do,” the woman says as she paces in front of him.

           The lack of air in John’s lungs makes him lightheaded. He can’t follow the woman’s movements, and he can’t keep track of where Dominic is until the wall of a man is upon him again. Soon after the beating resumes, John loses consciousness.

           He’s brought back sometime later ( _Minutes? Hours?_ John has no way of knowing) when a bundle of thin wires brushes his side. The fire of electricity burns through his system, causing his jaw to clench involuntarily and every muscle in his body to seize. 

           “Were we boring you, Dr. Watson?” Ms. White asks. She’s sitting on a chair in front of him, her legs crossed at the ankles, then tucked under the chair. “Do try to stay awake. We have such a busy schedule to keep.”

 

*

            Lestrade leans back in his chair, silent. Across the desk from him, Sherlock is sitting, his elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor but looking at nothing.

            “What do we do?” Lestrade finally asks. “What _can_ we do? Compared to Mycroft’s resources, I don’t have much to offer,” he admits, looking over at Sherlock.

            “And here we arrive at the problem I’m having,” the younger man says. “There’s nothing for me to investigate. I’ve already checked in with the Homeless Network, and they don’t have anything for me. What I know—what I can _do_ —won’t help John. I. Am. Useless.”

            Lestrade doesn’t say anything, which, to Sherlock, is almost worse than an attempt to deny Sherlock’s statement. It is better, at least, than empty encouragement and affirmations.

            “Why don’t you go home, mate. In case he comes back,” the older man suggests. “I’ll ring up your brother and see if there’s anything I can do from my end.”

            Sherlock sighs. “It’s a sad day, indeed, when you and the Met can be of more use that I,” he says, attempting his usual level of condescension.

            But Lestrade can tell his heart’s not in it. “This is John, Sherlock. He’ll be fine.”

            “And if he isn’t?” Sherlock asks. “What do I do then?”

 

*

 

             Every cycle is the same. First, he’s woken up with the wires. His muscles become stiff and unyielding, his heart pauses, his jaw tightens until his teeth hurt. When need be, the wires responsible for stopping his heart are also called into use to restart it. He tries not to think about will happen if they fail to bring him back.

             Next he’s beaten. Solid, heavy hands pound into him until he feels like tenderized meat. He’s counted at least three broken ribs, though, at this point, he would be surprised if they weren’t all damaged in some way.

             Then, he’s broken. Ms. White chooses a new bone each time. First a finger. Then a toe. A cheekbone. She chooses carefully, as though from some list. A torture menu. John has lost count of which bones in his body are broken. Everything feels the same. Everything hurts.

             Finally he’s cut. His cotton shirt long gone, his skin is exposed, vulnerable to Dominic’s knives. Long, thin slices are scored into in his abdomen, outlining his ribs, flaying open his muscles. Careful grids are carved into his left thigh, the inside of his right arm, his right shoulder blade.

             Sometimes he’s strapped to the cold, metal chair. Other times he’s hoisted into the air, strung up by the iron bar. The worst is when he’s made to squat for hours on end. The beatings are always more enthusiastic if he falls over.

             He is no longer the sum of his parts. He is a dislocated shoulder. A broken femur. A ruptured eardrum. He no longer recognizes himself as a unit. A whole.

             “He’s not coming for you, you know,” the woman says after a particularly brutal session. His arms had been strapped behind his back, and he’d been made to crouch down, his weight on the balls of his feet, for what felt like hours.

             John starts laughing. There’s a manic, hysterical edge to it that he can’t control. Not that he really tries. Whatever energy he has remaining is better spent breathing.

             The woman looks at him, alarm evident in her expression. It’s the first time John’s made a noise aside from a rare scream or an unconscious moan since their first session. John suspects she’d almost forgotten he was capable of making deliberate sounds.

             “You’re trying to use this against me,” he laughs. “You think I’m afraid that Sherlock doesn’t care about me, or trust me, or think about me beyond his next cup of tea,” he says still amused. “But you’re out of luck.” He stops laughing abruptly. “I’m not afraid that’s true—I _know_ it is. So Fuck. You.”

             “You think he doesn’t care about you?” She looks at him, a slow, calculated smile spreading across her face. “No, Dr. Watson. That was never the issue.” She pulls a mobile from her pocket, pushes a few buttons, then begins reading from the screen. “‘ _Why didn’t you get rid of my things? –SH’_ ” she reads out loud. “ _Why did you leave last night? –SH_ ; _Aren’t we supposed to talk? –SH; You were looking down when you left. Did you arrive safely? –SH_ ,” she continues to read, her tone growing continuously more condescending.“ _When did your limp return? –SH; We should talk. –SH; Why did you kiss me? –SH; Please. Talk to me. –SH_.” She has an ugly scowl on her face by the time she finishes reading the texts. “No Dr. Watson, Sherlock’s not caring was never the issue at all.”

              John’s heart is pounding in his chest, and it has nothing to do with being electrocuted.

             “The problem, Dr. Watson, is that he isn’t good enough to find you.” She glances away from John to give Dominic a look that John thinks must mean something. “I guess we’re just going to have to help him.”

             He learns all too quickly and all too profoundly what that look means when the blade in Dominic’s hand cuts deep into John’s gut. Deeper than he’s been cut before, and, John realizes right before he passes out, deep enough to kill.

 

*

 

              Sherlock is sitting in complete silence on the sofa when Mycroft walks in, followed by a slight, shorter man with ginger hair and large glasses.

              “Sherlock, this is Perseus,” Mycroft says, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the stranger.

              “I am absolutely chuffed to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” Perseus says, extending his hand toward Sherlock. “Chuffed to bits.” He doesn’t seem offended when his hand is ignored. “I’ve read all about you on Dr. Watson’s blog. I’ve read your blog, too, sir,” he continues.

              Sherlock looks over at Mycroft, who lowers himself slowly into Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock can see how tired he is, dark circles under his eyes, deep lines in his face, an unhealthy pallor to his skin. Instead of saying something caustic and mordant, he chooses, instead, to simply raise an eyebrow.

             “Perseus is my temporary assistant,” Mycroft explains.

             “You can call me Percy, if you prefer, sir,” the young man informs Sherlock.

             “No, I really can’t,” Sherlock says.

             “Why don’t you go make us some tea,” Mycroft says to his young assistant, who is off to the kitchen before the end of the sentence has stopped echoing off the walls.

             “Tell me you have something, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, having already forgotten the strange new assistant. “Tell me that, after nearly two weeks, your worthless, idiotic minions have finally found _something_.”

              Mycroft sighs. “There’s nothing _to_ find, Sherlock.”

             “How can you say that?” Sherlock yells, rage flaring in his eyes. “John! There’s _John_ to find, you stupid fool!” He erupts off the sofa and shoves the coffee table over, spilling half-drunk mugs of tea, papers, and books onto the floor.

             “Stop this, Sherlock!” Mycroft’s tone is firm and unsympathetic. “Stop this. You cannot simply wait here any longer. You can't sit here and...wallow. You need to prepare for the eventuality that John might not come home.”

             “So that’s it, then? I’m just supposed to give up on John? Accept that he’s gone?” Sherlock asks. “What? Like he gave up on me?”

             The flat is quiet, save for the sound of Perseus making tea in the kitchen. Mycroft studies his younger brother whose eyes, so full of pain and fear, are now so foreign to him.

             The quiet of the flat is broken a moment later with the sound of strong, quick footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock quickly turns toward the door, briefly disappointed to see Lestrade race into the sitting room.

             “I think we’ve got him,” the DI announces, breathless. “I think we’ve found John.”


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

 

       Lestrade races behind Sherlock as he weaves his way expertly through the hospital corridors. “I’ve had Donovan investigating every Joe Bloggs admitted into hospital,” the DI explains breathlessly. They’d been in the door less than two minutes before Sherlock had a nurse crying and cowering in a corner, but he’d gotten the room number he needed. “When the description came through for this one, Donovan came right away. I got the call about an hour ago. She says it’s him,” Lestrade concludes as they reach the right room number.

       The older man grabs Sherlock’s arm and spins him around. Sherlock struggles for a few moments before his wild eyes catch the DI’s. “Wait,” he’s saying. “Wait. Sherlock, she says he’s in bad shape. You need to be prepared when you walk in there.”

        The younger man scowls. “Lestrade, I see dead bodies by choice and with noted frequency. I don’t believe seeing a live one will upset my sensibilities.” Sherlock’s voice burns up his vocal chords, “Now, let. Me. Through.”

        Lestrade releases his grip on the man’s arm, but shakes his head. “This is John, Sherlock. He’s different.”

        Sherlock is prepared to offer a derisive reply, but when he opens the door to John’s room all intelligent thought abandons him. The man laying in the hospital bed bears no resemblance to the John he knows. This man is diminished, wan where his skin isn’t beaten black-and-blue. The right side of his face is swollen and bruised. His chest, arms, and stomach are wrapped in yards of bandages; his hands are similarly covered; and his right leg is bound in a cast from hip to toe. Sherlock has seen dead bodies in better condition.

         He’s beginning to feel light-headed when Lestrade speaks from behind him:  “Sherlock, you’ve got to breathe. Just breathe, mate.”

         The younger man feels a gentle push as he’s guided to an orange moulded plastic visitor’s chair next to the immobile form in the bed, at whom he can’t stop staring.

         Sherlock doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting in the chair when Mycroft enters the room, followed closely behind by a doctor in the requisite white lab coat. The older Holmes’ face blanches when he sees the figure lying in the bed, but his reaction is otherwise contained.

         “Sherlock, Detective Inspector, this is Dr. Harrison. She’s been in charge of Dr. Watson’s care since he was admitted,” Mycroft says, tapping an irregular beat into the floor with his umbrella.

          Sherlock spares a glance for the doctor before his gaze returns to John’s face. “How long has he been here?” he asks quietly.

         “He was dropped off outside the A&E entrance late last night. About…eleven hours ago,” the doctor says, glimpsing at her watch. “When he came in he was malnourished and dangerously dehydrated; we’ve already started addressing that. He’s been unconscious since he arrived, which would be discouraging if it weren’t also a blessing. Given his condition we probably would have sedated him otherwise.” Dr. Harrison pauses to flip through the file she has in her hands. “He’s got quite a few broken bones, the most worrisome being four broken ribs. Pneumonia would complicate that injury rather seriously, so we’re working to prevent his current cold from progressing further.” She flips another page in the file. “Thankfully, his right femur is only cracked, so that should heal rather quickly…”

          “Yes, yes. How _lucky_ he is,” Sherlock hisses. “What _would_ we have done if his leg was fully broken?” He scowls at the doctor who looks back at him in surprise.

          “I apologize for my brother’s behaviour, Dr. Harrison,” Mycroft addresses the doctor but glares at Sherlock. “Sherlock’s had a difficult few weeks.”

          Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Oh, yes. The last two weeks have been dreadful. Lying about the flat waiting for you to give me a lead to investigate—some way to find John— while John’s been tortured? Yes, how _did_ I survive?” Sherlock returns Mycroft’s glare with terrifying force.

          The doctor clears her throat. “Shall I continue?” she asks, interrupting the staring contest between the two brothers.

          Lestrade, quietly standing in the corner with his arms folded across his chest, finally finds his voice. “Just ignore them, ma’am. They’re like this.”

          She glances from one Holmes to the other before returning to her list of John’s injuries. “Yes, well. I was about to say that, in light of the electrical burns on his chest, we’ve done an EKG to determine the functionality of his heart, and the results are encouraging, though, as with the rest of his injuries, we’ll have to monitor him for a while to be sure there are no negative long-term effects,” she says, then finally looks up from the file in her hands. “He’s been broken pretty badly, Mr. Holmes, but we have every hope that he’ll recover from this,” she concludes, and, getting no response, leaves the room a moment later.

          “‘Hope, in reality, is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man’,” Sherlock murmurs after a little while.

           Mycroft scoffs. “Good heavens, Sherlock. Why must you always fall back on Nietzsche? He was unjustifiably dramatic.”

           “I’ve had a difficult few weeks, Mycroft. I’m allowed a little drama,” Sherlock replies.

           Mycroft sighs, then says, “I have phone calls to make. I trust I will find you here for the foreseeable future?”

           Sherlock looks at him with his _I-won’t-even-dignify-that-with-a-response_ frown before he turns back to John.

           “I’ll stay with him for a while,” Lestrade says, then settles into the chair on the other side of the bed.

 

*

 

            _The first thing John sees when he opens his eyes is a gloomy grey light through a window next to his bed. A grey light that looks nothing like the sky he’d seen in Afghanistan the last time his eyes were open._

_A woman in nurses’ scrubs stands next to his bed, her back to him, as she records his vital signs on his chart. He groans when he opens his mouth to speak, his throat as dry as desert sand. The woman turns to him._

_“Well, hello there, handsome,” she says in a thick Irish accent. “It’s so nice to see your beautiful blue eyes open and alert.” She fills a cup with water and helps him drink from a straw._

_“Where…where am I?” he asks a moment later._

_“Selly Oak,” she answers. “Captain Watson, you’re back in England.”_

_“What happened?” he asks, his mind still so foggy._

_“I tell you what. Why don’t you get some more rest, and we’ll talk later,” she says as he drifts back into the darkness._

*

 

         Lestrade leaves a few hours later, needing to get back to work. After moving his chair as close to the bed as possible, Sherlock sits huddled in silence, his arms wrapped around his knees. He stares at the man in the bed, but still can’t see John there. This man doesn’t have John’s calm strength, his crooked smile, his unyielding determination. The man in the bed is just battered skin and shattered bones.

         Sherlock tentatively reaches one hand out to touch John’s hand, a hand that’s made countless cups of tea for him, fired a gun to save his life, gripped the back of his neck tight when they kissed. It’s cold, he discovers, so he wraps his hand around it, rubbing his thumb gently over each finger. Sherlock buries his head in his arms and concentrates on his breathing, and lets his hand slowly warm the one in its tender grasp.

 

          "I sat with him, you know,” Mycroft says quietly when he enters the room a little while later, causing Sherlock to look up. “Several times, in fact. In the days following your…disappearance. Before you came to me to tell me you were alive.” Mycroft taps his umbrella against the floor once, looking ill at ease. “I’m ashamed to admit that I was feeling uncharacteristically emotional.” He looks at the pale man in the bed. “He was always so good for you,” Mycroft continues, though it seems more like he’s thinking out loud. “He always seems to be able to…help. You.” He sighs and moves to the other side of the bed to sit in the empty chair.

          Despite the complicated nature of their relationship, and the trials it’s endured, Sherlock doesn’t take this opportunity to mock or ridicule his brother. He’s also grateful that his brother didn’t mention the fact that Sherlock is still gently holding onto John’s hand. Sherlock’s not sure if this shows maturation on his part, or if it reveals his current level of vulnerability.

          Mycroft doesn’t say anything else, and neither does Sherlock, until the older Holmes rises to leave a few hours later. “I’ve arranged for a private room for Dr. Watson,” Mycroft says. “And I have a specialist coming in to take over his care.”

           Sherlock just nods, not looking away from the man in the bed.

          “He’ll be all right, Sherlock,” Mycroft says. Receiving no further response, he picks up his umbrella and leaves the room, closing the door gently behind him.

 

           Sherlock is asleep a little while later, his head resting on his arms, when a nurse comes in the room. She’s short, with milky tea coloured hair pulled back in a messy knot. He watches her as she checks the machines that monitor John’s heart rate, his blood oxygen levels, his blood pressure. She records the results carefully in John’s file, then examines the fluids hanging on the arms of the IV drip, verifying their contents and speed of distribution. The nurse doesn’t address Sherlock until she’s nearly ready to leave.

           “You know he can hear you, right?” she asks, tucking John’s blanket in more securely around him. “We get patients that come out of this sort of thing all the time, claiming they heard every word said.  You could try talking to him,” the nurse says. “It might help.” She efficiently completes her work, gives him a slight smile, then leaves the room, though her suggestion stays behind and burrows deep into Sherlock’s mind.

 

*

 

            _The next time John opens his eyes, the nurse is back and changing the dressings covering his left shoulder._

_“Hello again, Captain Watson,” she smiles down at him, deep laugh lines appearing in her cheeks. Her earthy brown eyes crinkle easily in the corners. “I’m Nurse Undershaw. I’ve been taking care of you. Do you remember where you are?”_

_“Sel…Selly Oak,” he says quietly, his voice rough and gravelly._

_“That’s right. And do you remember what happened, Captain?” she asks, offering him a cup of water with a straw._

_He draws a deep drink, then answers, “I was shot?”_

_“Right again, I’m afraid,” she says. “Sniper, apparently. Between that and a rather nasty infection, you haven’t been quite yourself these last few weeks.”_

_“Sergeant Thomas?”_

_“Is that the boy you were working on when you were shot?” she asks quietly. When she bends over to check his IV line, her russet coloured hair, shot through with streaks of white, swings forward to form a curtain over her face. He can’t read her expression like this._

_“Yes,” he answers._

_“He’ll be just fine, Captain,” she looks up and smiles at him again. “Now you just rest, love. I’ll come and check on you again in a little while.”_

 

*

 

         Sherlock has been on his phone doing research for several hours when he suddenly jumps up from the chair and starts speaking out loud. “According to research, there’s a high probability that you can hear me right now,” he says. He and John are alone, and have been since the last nurse left over an hour ago. “And though I feel ridiculous talking to someone unresponsive, I’m assured you might benefit from this.” Sherlock begins pacing at the end of John’s bed. “So. Here I am. I suppose it’s not much different from my talking to you when you leave the flat without telling me.”

          He pauses for a moment and looks at the man lying prone in the bed. “All right, I’ll concede. Sometimes I don’t hear you say goodbye. My surprise when you come back is genuine.” Sherlock resumes pacing. “In any case, I should be used to talking to unresponsive partners in conversation. Unresponsive is worlds better than idiotic, and even in your current state you’re still superior to Anderson.”

           When Sherlock turns and puts his hands on the end of the bed, his right hand reaches out and covers John’s foot.  “The research is frustratingly vague, though, John. I don’t know if you can hear what I’m saying, or if you can just hear the tone of my voice. If I sham cheerful, but say something like: ‘The London Eye was bombed today,’ what will you understand? That didn’t happen, in case you understood that. I know how touchy you can be.” 

           Sherlock begins pacing again, adding vague hand gestures to his address. “This was not within my typical scope of research or experimentation, John. I concentrate on death. Decay. Motives to commit crimes. I don’t have cause to learn whether someone in a coma can hear or not. Even like this,” Sherlock gesticulates wildly in John’s direction, “you’re challenging me.” He sighs as he returns to his seat. “I’ll learn, John,” he says faintly. “I’ll learn how to do this. Just don’t leave.”

 

*

 

_He wakes up to a room warmed by sunlight. His shoulder is still wrapped tight in a thick wad of gauze, but the heavy medication he’s on is keeping most of the pain at bay. He glances toward the window and, instead, sees a woman sitting in the chair next to his bed._

_“Hey there, Johnny,” his sister says. She shifts uneasily in the chair and sighs. “Been waiting forever for you to wake up.”_

_“Harry,” he acknowledges her weakly. “What’re you doing here?”_

_“They called me. Guess I’m still listed as your emergency contact.”_

_“You didn’t have to come,” he says. Her eyes are bloodshot, and her blond hair hangs limp against her puffy cheeks. He doesn’t have to be a doctor to know she’s been drinking._

_“Almost didn’t,” she admits. “They say you’re out. Of the army, that is. That you’ll need a place to stay when you get out of here.”_

_“I’ll figure it out, Harry.”_

_“You could always come stay with me,” she offers. “We’ll throw a welcome home party; you and me, drinking together and having fun; you with your head in the toilet, me snogging some random girl on the sofa. It’ll be just like old times.”_

_“That only happened once,” he reminds her. “And that was nearly twenty years ago.”_

_“Well, it’ll be just like old time, then,” she tries to joke. Her shaky hand tucks a lock of hair behind her ear._

_They’d never gotten on, really. Even when they were young. But then she was made his legal guardian when he was sixteen, after their mother died of cancer. Their father had died a few years before that of cirrhosis. After paying the rent, she’d spend the rest of their money on alcohol, and sometimes even the rent money wasn’t safe. She saw the world as black and white, right and wrong, good and bad; and he lived in the grey areas, believing in a world of compromise and possibility. Their relationship had deteriorated quickly after he left for university. She saw his departure as the opportunity to live her life exactly as she wanted. And that was mostly drunk._

_“Clara out of the picture, then?” he asks._

_“Stuck up bitch was too controlling,” she says by way of explanation._

_“Right, well,” John says, not knowing how to respond._

_“Speaking of my new ex, I brought you a present,” she says as she digs into her purse on the floor. A moment later she pulls a mobile phone out and passes it to him. “You can have this,” she says. “I got a new one.”_

_“Ta, Harry. Suppose I’ll be needing one of these,” John says, turning the gadget over in his hands._

_“Right, well. I suppose I should be going,” she says, though she doesn’t move to get up from the chair. “Say, Johnny. Before I go, I don’t suppose you have any money tucked away, do you?”_

_John sighs. “No, Harry. I don’t have anything.”_

_“Oh, well. That’s fine,” she says. She’s swiftly out of the chair, purse slung over her shoulder and halfway to the door, before she turns around. “It was good seeing you, Johnny. I’ll try and visit again next week?”_

_“Sure, Harry,” he says. “Next week.”_

 

*

 

            “They moved you today,” Sherlock says two days later. “Did you notice? This room is bigger, and the view out of the window is marginally better. You also have a bathroom that’s better than ours at home. Though I suppose you care little for that now. You might when you wake up, though.” He’s settled into a new chair, much softer than the one in the old room—it even folds down into a bed—but he’s still close enough to John’s bed to touch him. Sherlock reaches out now to pick up John’s limp hand.

            “Your new doctor was here,” he tells John. “He’s sleeping with his wife’s brother, but he’s supposed to be very good at treating victims of trauma,” he explains.

            “Mrs. Hudson was here earlier, too” he tells John. “She didn’t stay long—you scared her off. Your face is rather a sight,” he says, then adds, “Oh, you know what I meant.”

            Sherlock continues talking to John for another hour, telling the sleeping man about Mrs. Hudson’s brief visit, deducing the hospital employees, outlining new experiments and tentative hypotheses he’s planning on investigating when they get back to Baker St.

            “You just need to wake up, John. Wake up and we can go home.”

 

            When Mycroft enters the room early the next morning, he finds Sherlock asleep, his head on the bed, resting next to his and John’s shared hand grasp. He sighs, then sits in the room’s other chair on the opposite side of the bed from his brother. The rustling of his newspaper wakes Sherlock up a short time later.

            “What are you doing here,” the younger Holmes asks sharply, still working the sleep from his voice.

            Mycroft folds his paper and tucks it into his attaché case. “This,” he says, gesturing between his brother and John, “is all very adorable, but when are you going back to work, Sherlock?” he asks.

            “Not until John’s better,” Sherlock says. “Not until John can join me.”

            “And what if he will never be able to accompany you again?” Mycroft continues. “What then?”

            Sherlock’s eyes blaze as he glares at his older brother. “Of course John will join me again. Neither of us can survive without the work.”

            “It appears, dear brother, that one of you isn’t surviving _with_ the work,” Mycroft says, his tone cold. “But this is about more than that. Don’t you want to catch who did this?”

            “I was rather under the impression that my brother was exploring that avenue of investigation,” Sherlock says.

            If Mycroft were prone to gaping, he would gape now. Instead he raises one eyebrow and stares at his younger brother for a moment. “This is the sort of situation about which you used to dream,” he says.

            “I assure you, Mycroft, I never dreamt of _this_ situation,” Sherlock says, pointedly glancing at John.

            “No, I suppose neither of us did,” Mycroft admits.

 

*

 

            _Nurse Undershaw is sitting in the chair the next morning when John opens his eyes. She smiles at him when she notices he’s awake. He moves to sit up, but when he tries to put weight on his shoulder he nearly screams from the pain._

_“Hold on. Hold on, Captain,” the nurse says. She puts down the book she’s been reading and moves to help him._

_“You’re not in your scrubs,” he realizes a few minutes later when he’s settled in his new position._

_“That’s because I’m not working,” she says as she sits back down in the uncomfortable chair beside his bed._

_John looks at her, his face a study in confusion._

_“Thought I’d come see how you were doing this morning.” She tries to explain, but John still seems puzzled. So she sighs and says gently, “You…you remind me of my son.”_

_“Nurse Undershaw, there’s no way you have a son my age,” John says, partly hoping flattery will lift the suddenly dark atmosphere, and partly genuinely surprised that she has a son old enough that John reminds her of him._

_“Well, you look quite a bit younger when you’re asleep,” she says, giving a sort of half shrug._

_“Ta for that,” he says, chuckling quietly._

_“Besides, I thought you could use some company,” she says brightly, and with a warm smile that does more to lift the gloom than anything he could say. And she’s right. Aside from a brief and unsatisfying visit from his sister, John’s had no visitors, and has only seen his doctor once since waking up._

_“Ta for that, too,” he says softly, looking down at his hands, trying to hide the sudden pricks of tears in his eyes. “Ta very much.”_

 

*

 

            “You’re a virus, John,” Sherlock says the fourth day into John's hospital stay. “Oh, don’t take it the wrong way. You’re the very best kind of virus, to be sure, but a virus you are. You’ve gotten into my hard drive—I know how you loved that metaphor.

            “You know what I did while you were gone?” he asks. “Nothing. I didn’t do anything, John. No cases, no experiments. I didn’t bother Lestrade—well, I bothered him a little, but you still would have been pleased.”

            Sherlock leans over and rests his elbows on his knees, his chin on his steepled hands. “I…I need you to wake up, John. I don’t work without you. Not anymore. The only reason I was capable of leaving you for two years was because I knew you were home. Safe.

            “So, you need to stop this, John,” Sherlock says. _“_ John, you need to wake up now.” He reaches out and grabs John’s hand. “Stop this right now, John!”

 

*

 

            _“You’ll be out of here in a few days,” Nurse Undershaw tells him a few weeks after his swift and unexpected arrival back in England. “Know what you’re going to do, yet?” she asks._

_“There’s a bedsit nearby. I’ve heard a lot of blokes who’ve been invalided home rent there until they figure out what to do next. Sounds like a good enough plan to me,” John explains. It’s not a great option, he knows, but it’s better than crashing on Harry’s sofa. “Anyway, I’ll be close by to continue my physiotherapy,” he says, trying to make it sound better. And really, based on his progress thus far on both his leg and his shoulder, being close is probably a wise decision._

_“Right. I’ve heard of it,” she says, though she doesn’t sound pleased. “Try not to stay there too long, yeah? Get yourself right, then get out.”_

_“Hey, at least I’ll still be around. I’ll come and see you,” he says._

_“No, Dr. Watson. You won’t,” she says, shaking her head firmly. “When you leave here, you leave all this behind.”_

_“What are you talking about?” he asks._

_“No good can come from you dwelling on this part of your life, Dr. Watson. When you leave here, you need to move on. You_ need to stop this, John,” _she says, though her voice seems strange. So much deeper than it was just moments ago. “_ John, you need to wake up now,” _she says, though the voice doesn’t seem to be coming from her at all anymore._ “Stop this right now, John,” _the voice echoes through the room, it’s deep and seems to shake the hospital’s very walls. His surroundings are fading, and a bright light starts to fill the room. He closes his eyes to shield them from the light, and when he_ opens them again he sees a familiar face of a very different sort.

             “Sherlock,” he rasps.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

 

            John tries to keep his eyes open. The room is bright, but the face before him blocks out much of it, a hazy halo shining through the familiar dark curls. He tries to focus on the face that’s hovering above his, _like some kind of gorgeous angel_ , he thinks. _And that’ll be the meds talking_. He opens his heavy eyelids again, unevenly and with great effort, and is rewarded with the sight of a pair of silver-green eyes examining him, brow crinkled with concern.

            “Sherlock,” he says. “You’re here.” The relief he feels is sudden and acute, flowing over him like water from a warm bath.

            “Of course I am, John. Where else would I be?” Sherlock asks, now adding confusion to his expression, which does nothing to reduce the wrinkles between his eyebrows.

            “Anywhere but here,” John huffs a laugh that ends in a groan, suddenly and painfully aware of his broken ribs. He tries to shift into a different position, hoping to ease the strain on his chest. Instead, the pain blossoms from myriad points on his body: first his ribs, already making it difficult to breathe; then his broken right hand, which he’d unwisely used to try and sit up; then his leg with its “cracked” femur; then his left shoulder, which, though only dislocated, was weak to begin with; and finally his stomach, where the knife had slid into the muscles, the stitches now pulling in competing directions. 

            Sherlock quickly presses the nurse’s call button, before turning to John. “Tell me, John,” Sherlock says, trying to distract the man from the pain. “John? Tell me, did you hear me?”

            “What? When?” John asks through clenched teeth.

            Sherlock puts his hands on either side of John’s body, his forearms pressed lightly against the older man’s sides, careful of his injuries but trying to keep him from writhing around and causing more pain and damage. “While you were in a coma. The nurse said you could hear me. My research suggested you might.”

            “I heard…I think I heard you calling for me,” John admits as a fresh wave of pain rolls over him. “Telling me to ‘stop this’ and ‘wake up’.” He breathes in short gasps, as anything deeper puts too much pressure on his ribs.

            “Hm. Interesting. Did you hear anything else?” Sherlock asks.

            “I…I’m not sure?” John says. “I don’t think so.”

            The door opens and a nurse enters, followed closely by the doctor.

            “Good morning, Dr. Watson,” the doctor greets him cheerfully, while the nurse checks the machines John is attached to. “It’s good to see you awake. I’m Dr. McAllister.” The man manoeuvres around the bed, and around Sherlock, who is refusing to budge from his position next to John.

             John, finally calming down, squeezes the arm closest to his left hand, and silently indicates that Sherlock can step back.

            Sherlock hesitates for a second before moving to the chair further away from the bed. He drops down into it, but keeps his eyes locked on John.

            “How long have I been here?” John asks.

            “Just over five days,” Dr. McAllister answers as he pulls back on one of John’s bandages. “You’re doing well, but you’ve been through quite an ordeal. Can you tell me about it?”

             John’s whole body tenses as he remembers for the first time the events that lead to his current condition. He’d been so focused on Sherlock’s presence that he hasn’t yet had the chance to think about why he is in hospital to begin with. Now, though, flashes of memory from the last two weeks fill his head. His eyes slam shut as the foul odour of the cell comes rushing back. He hears Ms. White’s whispers in his ear, feels the pull of a rope around his neck, whimpers as a phantom thin, iron bar is cracked across the knuckles of his right hand.

            What John doesn’t hear is Dr. McAllister calling for him, or an escalated beeping indicating his increased heart rate, or his own piteous cries, and he doesn’t feel the nurse’s hands as she tries to stop him from twisting around on the bed.

            “1…2…3…,” he begins counting out loud, hoping he’ll be able to return to that detached place where he’s floating. “…4…5…6…” But it’s not working, _not working_ , because this time it’s his head that he needs to get away from. And floating won’t work. Floating won’t work because he needs to be grounded; grounded to a place where he’s not being beaten and cut and shocked. He tries to control the panic, but every new memory takes him further away from reality and closer to being tied up in that cold, rank warehouse.

            And then he feels a hand—a warm, soft hand, long fingers, calloused fingertips—grab onto his own and hold tight; a hand that anchors him to a bed in a hospital. A bed surrounded by a doctor and a nurse and _Sherlock_. Sherlock, who is here, who hasn’t left his side even though John is quite obviously damaged. His racing heart begins to beat more steadily, the images flooding his mind fade into darkness, and when he opens his eyes his line of sight is again completely filled by the pale, angular beauty of his friend.

           “Calm down, John,” Sherlock is saying. “You’re safe here.”

           Soon John is calming down—no doubt helped by whatever the nurse injected into his IV line—so calm he can barely keep his eyes open. But he resists, fights the pull towards sleep. He looks up at Sherlock, his grey-green eyes mirroring John’s own now diluted sense of panic.

           Sherlock sits lightly on the edge of the bed, still holding John’s hand, rubbing slow circles into his palm. “Go to sleep, John,” he says. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

           And with that reassurance, John stops struggling against the darkness and turns to welcome it.

 

*

 

           Sherlock sits as still as a stone, perched in the chair, hands steepled under his chin, a look of deep concentration on his face as he watches John. He watches the shallow rise and fall of John’s chest as he breathes, the way his eyes twitch when he enters REM sleep, the quiet moans he makes when the pain invades his dreams. Sherlock doesn’t move when the nurse comes back a few hours later with new IV bags. He just watches as she replaces them, checks John’s vitals, makes notes on his chart. He watches her leave, closing the door gently behind her.

          He ignores the pings and chimes his phone makes. There’s no one he wants to talk to. The one stipulation to accepting Mycroft’s offer of support is that he gets regular updates on John’s condition. He probably knew within minutes that John woke up today. He’ll most likely visit tomorrow when John’s alert in order to question him.

          Lestrade’s been visiting every night for an hour or two after he leaves work. He never says much, just drops a bag with a few sandwiches into Sherlock’s lap, hands him a travel mug of tea, then sits quietly in the other chair. Sometimes they chat softly, but mostly they just sit. Work has been gruelling lately, Lestrade tells him. Sherlock thinks the quiet of the hospital room might relax the DI. Lestrade never brings him any cases, and Sherlock never asks for them. If John is awake tonight when Lestrade visits he, too, will have questions for John. Sherlock wonders if John will be able to answer them.

          Mrs. Hudson has visited twice now. Both times she’s brought Sherlock clean clothes, freshly baked biscuits, a book, and a carafe of tea. She doesn’t stay long—tears well up in her eyes after a few minutes. She’ll be glad to see John awake. Sherlock might call her later. If John is awake later, Sherlock might have _him_ call her. He thinks she’ll like that.

          In all the time he was away, and with as many scenarios as he constructed regarding his homecoming, Sherlock never imagined they’d be here. He never imagined John like this. Blank and unresponsive. Sherlock thought he could take anything John could throw at him: rage, sorrow, hatred. But he never accounted for this.

          He leaves the room only once to use the restroom. He washes his face and runs the plastic comb that’s sitting next to the sink through his hair. While he was away he cut it shorter on the sides, but kept the top longer so that it fell over his forehead. Kids in school used to call him Fivehead. Among other things. Now his fringe is hanging in his eyes. He’ll have to get it cut, but not until John is allowed to go home. Everything can wait until John is allowed to go home. Until then, Sherlock’s life is in a holding pattern. Until then, he’s content just to watch the steady rise and fall of John’s chest as he breathes.

 

*

 

            John wakes up late that night ( _early morning?_ ) and knows something is wrong. He’s sweating profusely, he feels like he’s on fire, and there’s a sharp sting in his stomach.

           He uses the control pad attached to the bed to lift the head of the bed up. He tries to breathe shallowly but evenly to prevent pain in his chest, but is left lightheaded and dizzy from his efforts.  John slowly peels off the gauze covering the most significant knife wound. The gash beneath the stitches looks red and puffy, and the skin around it is distended—an undeniable lump pushing out of his stomach.

            “Sherlock,” he whisper-yells to the man asleep in the chair. “Sherlock,” he tries again, this time a little louder, but still gets no response.

            John hands are shaking and the pain in his stomach is increasing rapidly. As he reaches for the nurse’s call button, he can’t control the deep groan that rumbles from his mouth.

            Sherlock is awake and beside him in seconds, his curls sticking out wildly from his head. “Wha’s wrong?” he asks, his voice still sleepy.

            “I think…I think it’s infected,” John answers, panting through the pain. He runs his fingers around the wound, pushing down gently, and is met by something hard. He gasps shallowly, trying not to aggravate his healing ribs.  “Sherlock…I think there’s something in there,” he says, eyes wide as he meets Sherlock’s own shocked gaze.

 

*

 

            “Doctor!” Sherlock yells, looking up from John and towards the door. “Doctor!” He rushes to the door, throws it open and yells a third time: “Doctor!” He paces between John’s room and the hallway outside. “You would think, given how much he is no doubt being paid, that he would be here should his patient need assistance,” Sherlock says loudly and to no one in particular.

            A door halfway down the long hall opens up, and Dr. McAllister steps out, still pulling on his white coat, his hair jutting out from his head at odd angles.

            “He’s on his way,” Sherlock assures John as he returns to the older man’s side. John’s eyes are closed, his ashen skin is slicked with a light gloss of sweat, and his breath is coming in sharp pants, each exhalation bringing a moan with it.

            A nurse enters the room shortly before Dr. McAllister, and shoves Sherlock away from the bed. She’s in place when the doctor takes one look at the wound in John’s stomach and orders an OR prepared immediately.

            After a manic flurry of activity—the doctor and two nurses rushing about getting John ready for surgery, then wheeling him out on his bed—Sherlock is left alone in an empty room.

            He’s still standing in the middle of the room an hour later, arms limp at his sides, when Mycroft walks in.

            “I keep wondering when you will realize that what you’re feeling is guilt,” the older Holmes says, “and that it is helping no one.” He takes one of Sherlock’s hands and deposits a clear plastic jar into its upturned palm. Mycroft sinks into a chair, unbuttons his jacket, and settles in to wait for further news of John’s condition.

           Sherlock brings the container up to eye-level. Inside is a purple plastic egg, like those used in Easter egg hunts. He’s still looking at the egg a few minutes later when John is wheeled back into the room, unconscious and wrapped in gauze with renewed vigour. The doctor follows him in and visibly pales when he notices Mycroft and his expression of unquestionable displeasure.

           “The doctor who did his intake must have just stitched him up and not done any x-rays,” Dr. McAllister is quick to explain. He gestures towards the jar Sherlock is holding: “It appears to have been inserted under his right internal oblique, and as it was rejected by the body, it was pushed through the channel made by the knife.” Seeing no change to Mycroft’s expression, Dr. McAllister continues, “We’ve administered a stronger antibiotic, which should effectively treat the infection—and quickly, too…”

           Mycroft interrupts the doctor, “Tell me, Dr. McAllister, for a doctor of your supposed calibre, how would you explain your patient having a violent panic attack the first time you see him awake? And your own ignorance about something like the presence of a plastic toy in your patient’s body? Because if you can, with any skill, clearly elucidate why you’ve failed so miserably in your position, I might be inclined to let you keep it.” Mycroft looks up from examining his fingernails to see the doctor shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “You’re free to go, Dr. McAllister,” Mycroft concludes.

           Sherlock looks up from the jar to watch as the doctor leaves, then turns to collapse in the chair behind him. “It’s a message, Mycroft,” he says. “But what does it _mean_?”

          Mycroft sighs. “I rather think we’ll have to open it to find out.” At Sherlock’s confused expression, Mycroft rolls his eyes, “Good heavens, Sherlock. You’ve deleted Easter eggs? Mummy will be so disappointed all those hunts she planned were for naught.” Mycroft heaves another heavy sigh. “They _open_ , Sherlock.”


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

 

             Sherlock launches himself out of the chair, sets the jar on the rolling cart near John’s bed, and begins rummaging through the cupboards and drawers in the room. “There must be some here. There must be…” he mutters. “Aha!” he yells when he opens the cupboard above the sink. He pulls a pair of nitrile gloves out of the box he’s found and efficiently yanks them on with a snap. His hands shake ever so slightly as he unscrews the lid on the plastic container, and as he removes the egg inside, he tries not to dwell on the fact that it was extracted from John’s body less than an hour ago.

  The egg opens with an audible pop. Nestled tightly inside is a small piece of paper wrapped around a memory stick.

             Sherlock pulls out the paper first, and unrolls it.It reads:

_Keep your colleague in line, and I’ll do the same with mine._

_Everybody has secrets. Do you want yours to remain hidden?_ _–The Professor_

             “I need a computer,” Sherlock says before walking swiftly out into the hall.

  Mycroft follows him, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder before Sherlock can hijack one of the computers at the nurse’s station. “They’re not safe,” Mycroft cautions. “Anybody has access to them, and the network to which they’re connected is incredibly corruptible.”

             Sherlock groans before pulling his mobile out of his pocket.

              _Emergency at the hospital. Stop and pick up John’s laptop on the way. –SH_

             Sherlock paces the U-shape around John’s bed until Lestrade rushes into the room less than three quarters of an hour later. “What happened? What’s wrong? Is John all right?” his questions begin as soon as he sees Sherlock.

             “Yes, yes. John’s fine. Give me this,” Sherlock says, snatching the laptop from Lestrade’s grasp.

             “You said it was an emergency,” the DI says, watching Sherlock nearly vibrate with energy as he waits for the machine cycle on. “He said it was an emergency,” he turns to Mycroft, his face contorted into a complicated mixture of surprise and apoplexy. He looks back to Sherlock. “It’s six AM on my day off. _Tell_ me you didn’t call me here just to bring you that bloody thing,” he says, pointing to the laptop, now resting on Sherlock’s knees and whirring quietly.

             Realizing that Sherlock has no intention of engaging in conversation any time soon, Lestrade looks deliberately at Mycroft, who has moved to stand behind Sherlock, splitting his attention between watching the laptop screen and keeping his fingers busy tapping on his mobile.

             “Earlier this morning, John was rushed into surgery to remove a plastic egg from his stomach. It appears he will be fine, but the contents of the egg are…cause for concern,” Mycroft says. He slips his mobile into his pocket and looks over to Lestrade. “Evidently, Sherlock doesn’t have to leave his flat to make enemies.”

             “Sherlock’s only been back for a couple weeks. And he may be one of the most irritating gits I know, but I’ve a hard time believing even he can make enemies in his flat,” Lestrade begins chuckling to himself.

             “You would be surprised,” Sherlock says without looking up from the computer screen. “I’m quite talented.” He inserts the memory stick into the slot on the side of the computer and is soon opening the large file it contains. As various images and documents begin popping up on the screen, Sherlock sucks in an audible breath and blanches. “This isn’t possible,” he says, his voice colored with disbelief.

             “This had better not be what I think it is, Sherlock,” Mycroft says sounding strained.

             “What? What is it?” Lestrade asks, moving to peer over Sherlock’s other shoulder.

             Sherlock studies the DI. “You probably don’t want to be a part of this,” he says.

             Lestrade shakes his head. “I’m off the clock, mate. Besides, I can’t help if I don’t know the whole story.”

             Sherlock considers this for another moment, then turns and points at the screen. “This picture was taken in Bombay, the night I dealt with one of Moriarty’s hired guns.” He brings up another document. “This is a statement from a witness who claims he saw me at the Seng Heng Bank in Macau, the night I stripped the organization of a significant portion of their funds.” Sherlock pulls up document after document, picture after picture, each new item helping to paint a very clear and excruciatingly detailed picture of his life over the last two years. He turns to look at Mycroft, fire burning in his eyes. “I told you. I _told_ you it was too easy,” he says.

  Mycroft sighs. “Individually, none of these things is particularly damning, but as a whole this could be catastrophic. Not to mention, their existence suggests other, more incriminating, evidence might exist, as well. If this information is ever leaked, it won’t matter if you were working for MI-6. People want their safety and security, but they don’t want to know what it costs.” He reaches back into his pocket and gets to work on his mobile. “I’ll put my people on it,” he says before walking out to the hallway to make his calls, leaving Sherlock and Lestrade to start going through the file, to try and get a clear idea of what the owner of the material actually has on Sherlock.

  A little over an hour later, Lestrade stands up and stretches, then settles his hands on his hips.  

  From the corner of his eye, Sherlock catches a glimpse of the older man’s puzzled expression. “You might as well just say what you’re thinking. I can practically hear it already.”

  Lestrade thinks for another few seconds before he says anything. “Well, it’s just that something isn’t sitting right, yeah? I mean, what does this,” the DI says, gesturing to the laptop, “have to do with John?”

  Sherlock looks over at John. “Absolutely nothing. The person who sent me this file—the person who abducted John—has no interest in John beyond his use as a weapon against me. His capture and subsequent torture is punishment for my perceived offences, of course,” he answers quietly.

  Lestrade looks skeptical. “Not to bruise your ego or anything, but I’m not so sure, mate.”

  “What do you mean?” Sherlock asks, eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

 “Christ, this really does have you out of sorts, doesn’t it?” Lestrade asks. “Read the message again, Sherlock. Sure, the threat is for you,” he says, “but the warning refers to something John’s been doing.”

 “But all he’s done is work at the clinic, and taken boring cases,” Sherlock says, though he can’t entirely write off Lestrade’s theory.

 

*

 

             John works his way out of the swirling dark of unconscious, slowly becoming aware of the voices surrounding him, catching bits of conversation here and there. Sherlock keeps mentioning city names: Bombay, Macau, Cairo, Havana. By the time Sherlock offers his assessment on how John’s been spending the last two years, John is awake, curious, and just a touch offended. _A common combination when Sherlock’s around_ , he thinks.

  “Oi, they weren’t all boring,” he says, his voice rough and sleepy.

            “John,” Sherlock breathes. He sets aside the laptop and is standing next to John in a flash. “How are you feeling? Hot? Any pain?”

            “I’m fine, Sherlock. Just fine.” The truth is that he is having difficulty finding a single square inch of his body that doesn’t hurt. But he isn’t going to tell Sherlock this. He isn’t going to tell Sherlock anything that will make him seem weak. The pain is manageable. The idea of Sherlock leaving him is not.

             Sherlock looks at John doubtfully, but doesn’t question him. No, his question comes from an entirely different—yet still logical—direction: “Your last few cases. Did anything seem strange about any of them? Was anything about any of them different from the cases you took before?”

             “Nothing really stands out,” John answers. He moves to sit up and his efforts are rewarded with a churning wave of nausea and pain. He closes his eyes and takes slow, even breaths.

             “John…” Sherlock begins, concern laced through his tone.

             “I’m fine. I’m good,” John cuts him off. He’s managed to shift himself into a sitting position, two thick pillows wedged behind his back. “That last case,” John says through clenched teeth as another surge of nausea rolls over him, “it had something to do with an MP. Pictures that’d ruin her career. Didn’t think anything of it at the time—didn’t seem like a big deal—but the bloke who was blackmailing the MP’s mother said something about another buyer.”

             “I wish I could say this is an isolated occurrence,” Mycroft says as he steps back into the room. “But my people are currently working on two more cases of the same ilk as we speak.”

             “I’m not surprised. There’s been a significant uptick in cases of blackmail these last few months,” John says quietly as if he’s thinking to himself. As if saying the words to this piece of the puzzle might help it align with another piece, making the whole picture a little more clear.

             “What do you mean, ‘uptick’?” Sherlock asks.

             John evidently doesn’t hear him, his focus elsewhere. “This blackmailer, he was an amateur. Easy to catch, easy to outplay. I doubt he has anything to do with your cases, Mycroft. In fact,” John turns to look at Lestrade, “Greg, I need you to check on a Patrick Ferguson. Lives in Norwich. Second residence in Wymondham. Runs an appliance repair business called Ferguson Fixes with his brother. See if anyone’s reported him missing or if he’s turned up dead.”

             The DI’s fingers flash across the screen of his mobile before John’s even through with his request.

             “What do you mean ‘uptick’?” Sherlock asks again, but at seeing John’s confused expression is compelled to explain his question further. “You said: ‘there’s been a significant uptick in cases of blackmail these last few months.’ What do you mean?”

             “Oh. Hm,” John intones. He looks around the room for a moment before he sees the computer on Sherlock’s chair. “Is that my laptop?” he asks, though he knows the answer.

             Sherlock groans. “Yes, yes. I borrowed it. I didn’t ask, as you were unconscious at the time. Now, focus! ‘Uptick’!” Sherlock very nearly yells.

             “Hold on, hold on. It’s fine. You can use it, but let me see it for a mo.”

             Sherlock shoots John a warning look, but stalks over to the chair to get the bloody computer anyway. “John…” he says as he returns with it in his hands, his voice heavy with the weight of his impatience.

             John takes the laptop and gingerly set it on his thighs, repositioning it when it sits too directly on one wound or another.

             “John, I hate to pressure you, but I, too, am curious about your allusion to more cases of blackmail,” Mycroft says.

             “I’m getting to it,” John says. He taps at the keyboard for a minute—long enough to provoke another sigh from Sherlock—then looks up and points to the screen. “There. Look. Over the last three months, cases of blackmail have risen by nearly fifty percent.”

             Mycroft leaves his post near the door to stand next to John where he can look down at the screen. Sherlock, already next to John, examines the document the older man has opened. Finishing with a brief storm of texts, Lestrade, too, joins the other men.

             “What am I looking at,” the DI asks seconds later.

             “A spreadsheet,” Sherlock says softly, his focus almost entirely dedicated to the file he’s now exploring.

             “Yeah, got that, genius. I’m not a complete idiot.”

             “Well then, you’re an immensely talented actor,” Sherlock says as he kneels next to the bed, getting closer to the computer.

             John takes the opportunity of Sherlock’s close proximity to punch him on the shoulder. He glares at the younger man, then looks up at Lestrade. “It’s a crime spreadsheet,” he explains. “I thought Sherlock might want to know what’s been happening in the world of crime while he was away, so I went through the newspapers and the Met website,” John had the courtesy to look at Lestrade with an expression that was at least mildly apologetic, “…and kept track of the types of crimes that were committed, along with some other factors: location, time of day, motive, whether the perpetrator was caught and if they were connected to any other crimes, weapons or tools involved, their serial numbers if possible, vehicles…Oh, also information on the victims: age, height, weight, hair colour, occupation, significant relationships…That sort of thing. Once the system was set up, I started backtracking, imputing data from the cases Sherlock and I went on. Thought maybe it might come in handy to, I don’t know, cross reference for new cases? Or something? Then I put the data on a timeline,” John continues, opening up another tab. “So we have a picture of what crime in London looks like over the last few years.”

  By the time John’s done explaining, all three men have abandoned their interest in the laptop and are looking at him like he’s just revealed that he’s the mayor of a town of caterpillars who all call him Allen—and, goodness, aren’t hats grand.

             Lestrade is the first to speak. “Christ,” he says, then whistles out a deep breath.

             Sherlock’s mouth is hanging open and he’s shaking his head back and forth slowly, and suddenly John is utterly terrified he’s said something wrong. Something that will scare Sherlock enough to run away again. He looks into Sherlock’s eyes and desperately tries to understand the emotion he sees there.

             Mycroft clears his throat three times before he speaks. “There are…hm. I have…Well. This is not what I expected,” he finally says.

             That Mycroft is so clearly shaken seems to rouse Sherlock from his own shock. “You knew?” he asks, his own eyes now appearing to examine John’s expression.

             Lestrade’s text alert disrupts the tension in the room. “Ferguson’s body was found almost two weeks ago. Shot, execution style, back of the head.”

             “Shit. He tried to tell me, and I ignored it. Blackmailers are always so dramatic; I just wrote it off.” Ferguson hadn’t been a very good man, but John can’t help but feel the slight pang of guilt. John scrubs a hand across his face, giving him an aching reminder that his cheekbone is quite possibly fractured, but at the very least deeply bruised. His leg, shoulder, and stomach are also starting to spark with pain, and he wonders how long he has before his next dose of medication.

 His attention is soon drawn away from his increasing discomfort when he thinks of something. “You need to run Eileen Clark’s name, too,” he says, glancing over to the DI again, “Also from Norwich. Her daughter’s the MP with the damaging pictures.”

             Lestrade is back on his mobile when Mycroft finds his voice again. “Denise? I know her. I can’t imagine she has anything worth blackmailing for.”

             “Mycroft, that’s surprisingly naïve. How unlike you,” John says.

             Mycroft’s expression quickly shifts into one of disdain, and John knows without any further proof that the man has firmly grounded himself again.

             “You knew,” the small, deep voice next to him says again, this time no longer a question.

              John turns back to Sherlock. “I did. But that’s not important right now.”

             Sherlock begins to argue, but John cuts him off. “It’s not as important as figuring out who’s responsible for all this, Sherlock. Who has the evidence to cause a great deal of trouble for you. For us.” He looks over to Mycroft, who is again standing near the door texting. “Have you heard of this person before, Mycroft? The Professor? Sounds like a villain from some old spy movie, doesn’t it?”

             “I was unaware of this sobriquet, but he or she could have been using a different one up to this point,” Mycroft says.

             “Oh! That reminds me. There was a woman. She said her name was Ms. White. She was beautiful, dark skin, but otherwise no distinguishing features. And a man: Dominic. Massive bloke, ex-military if I’ve ever seen one.”

             All three men are again absorbed by John’s comments. Lestrade opens a small notebook pulled from his back pocket. Mycroft sits down in a chair, taps on his phone a few times, then sets it next to John’s leg on the bed. Sherlock doesn’t move from where he’s still kneeling next to John.

              “Ah, yes. Right. I suppose you’re wanting to hear about it. Forgot about this bit,” John says, then exhales loudly and rubs his tender shoulder. “I was locked in a cell for the first week,” he begins. He tells them about keeping track of time by counting, about being dragged out of the cell a week into his abduction, about the warehouse, and the things his captors subjected him to. About halfway through, Lestrade collapses into the open chair, and Sherlock lays his head on the bed. By the time John’s finished all three men are ashen and visibly shaken.

             “I don’t think Ms. White is the leader, though,” he says, trying to keep the focus on the task of identifying the person truly responsible for his kidnapping and the profusion of evidence about Sherlock’s travels. “Dominic certainly answered to her, but I don’t think she was in charge. Everything seemed so designed. Like it was being done according to some plan. Ms. White may have been responsible for carrying out her boss’s orders, but she definitely wasn’t the one calling the shots.” When he finishes, he discovers he’s suddenly very tired, and leans back heavily into the pillows behind him.  

             The sound of Lestrade’s text alert surprises all of them when it chimes through the room a few moments later. The DI reaches into his pocket and reads the message. He looks up at John and shakes his head. “It looks like Mrs. Clark’s house was burned to the ground around the same time Ferguson was killed. One body recovered,” he says.

             “Well, then. Looks like that’s it.” John nods just once.

             A knock sounds on the door before a nurse opens it, pushing a cart. “I’m sorry boys, but I can’t wait any longer. Dr. Watson hasn’t had any pain medication in a while, and I imagine he’s feeling it by now.”

             John sighs. He closes his eyes and leans his head back on the pillow, thankful that, at least for a little while, he’ll be able to rest without the burning frisson of pain scorching through him.

             After the nurse exits the room, and recognizing John’s need for rest, Lestrade leaves to get what information he can about Ferguson’s murder and Mrs. Clark’s house fire. Mycroft follows him out, saying something about briefing his team.

             Sherlock remains where he’s been during the whole conversation, kneeling next to John on the hard linoleum floor, his head resting on one arm. He’s carefully outlining the shape of John’s hand against the blanket, not quite touching it as he follows the curve of the thumb around and down, then up the peak of the index finger, tracing each digit carefully then moving on to the next. He does it again and again, never quite touching John’s skin, but they can feel one another’s heat. “I didn’t want to leave you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

              John looks at the younger man for a moment before turning his head away, hoping to hide the tears as they fall.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

 

        John recognizes, as he wakes up later that afternoon, how much of his life with Sherlock involves the processes of sleeping and waking. Before the detective disappeared, John was often left catching twenty minute kips between cases and work and directives from his demanding flatmate; often woken up at odd and obscene hours of the night with the sometimes ethereal, sometimes tortured sounds of Sherlock manipulating his violin; often startled out of sleep with news of a freshly committed felony with a crime scene they needed to get to _quickly, John_.

         John could count on one hand the number of times he’d experienced a restful night’s sleep during Sherlock’s absence. Between jobs and cases, he left himself very little time to sleep, and when he did he was plagued with memories. Sweet memories, John realized during this time, could hurt just as much as the bitter ones: the bitter ones for having happened, the sweet ones because they were over and may never happen again.

         John spent so much time in the dark of night, water stains on the ceiling illuminated by the light from streetlamps coming through his bedroom window, wondering why he was left behind; wondering what he could have done or said to convince his best friend that he was trustworthy and valuable; wondering what he could do to prevent Sherlock from leaving again when and if he ever came back.

         And though John knew that the fall from St. Bart’s roof was fake, he still couldn’t stop seeing Sherlock tumbling from that edge so very far away from the ground; couldn’t stop seeing his best friend lying on the sidewalk, blood blooming out from under his head like a heartbreaking flower.

         Now, lying in his hospital bed, John can’t help but keep his eyes closed a few seconds longer every time he wakes up. Those last few moments before he forces himself to acknowledge reality, he lives in fear that some parts of the last few weeks were a dream, and that some parts had really happened.

         Which is why he starts to panic when he finally opens his eyes to an empty room.

          John tries to rationalize with his panic: He’s seen Sherlock multiple times over the last few days, and now that he’s safely out of danger and expected to make a full recovery, John can’t expect the younger man to stay with him. He knows Sherlock, and understands how difficult the last week must have been for him—how bored and trapped he must have felt. Really, it’s probably better in the long run that he’s gone. _As long as he hasn’t gone for good_ , John thinks.

          But despite the logical arguments in support of Sherlock’s departure, John can’t stop his heart rate from spiking, or his palms from sweating, or the anxious nausea from swirling around in his already abused belly. And he can’t stop the acute sense of relief that washes over him a moment later when Sherlock comes striding into the room, two cups of steaming hot tea in his hands.

           Recognizing the erratic beeping indicating John’s heart beat for what it is, Sherlock rushes to John’s side. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” he asks, frantically observing John’s face for signs of pain.

          “Nothing. I’m fine,” John tries to reassure him, but the detective looks at him sceptically. “Just a bad dream,” John says, close enough to the truth to lie convincingly. “One of those mine?” he asks, nodding his head toward the cups the other man is still holding.

           “Not as good as yours, but it’ll have to do until we get home,” Sherlock says, handing John one of the paper cups.

            John takes a sip and groans. “This might do me more good than any number of pain meds,” he says.

            Sherlock lowers himself into his chair and gracefully crosses one leg over the other. “You might change your mind about that soon enough. They plan to start stepping your medication down today.”

            “Good. The sooner I’m off of the more powerful stuff, the sooner I can go home.”

            “That will be nice,” Sherlock says, almost wistfully.

            “Sherlock, you know you don’t need to stay. In fact, you _should_ go. I’m just going to lie here. Mending.” John says the word as though it leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

            “You’ll have to forgive me, John, but the last time you decided you couldn’t be in my presence resulted in your near death. I can’t allow you to make the same mistake again.”

            “I’m sure Mycroft could use your help, though. You know his goons are only marginally better than Lestrade’s.”

            Sherlock looks away from John and focuses on the cup in his own hands. “I didn’t find you,” he says softly. “I tried—at least I think I tried—everything. But Mycroft, the Yard, the Homeless Network, they couldn’t give me anything to work with. So I didn’t find you. Whoever took you? They just dumped you outside the A&E doors. I can’t leave you.”

             John tenses. _Why am I so easy to get rid of_? he wonders. His parents, ex-lovers, the army, Sherlock, and now (though he acknowledges how disturbing it is to include them on the list), even his kidnappers found it so easy to just ditch him when he was no longer of any use to them.

            Despite the pain and difficulty, his shoulders tighten and his back straightens into a strict line. He thinks about what it means that he hadn’t yet wondered how he came to be in hospital, or whether Sherlock had anything to do with it. But if John’s interpreting Sherlock’s tone of voice correctly, the detective’s feeling guilty for not being able to find John. And the reason he’s stayed as close to John as he has isn’t because of an emotional connection or desire to reclaim their friendship, but out of some obligation or sense of pride.

            He inhales deeply through his nose, ignoring the twinge in his ribs. “Really, Sherlock. I can only imagine how bored you must be.  Why don’t you go find something better to do with your time. You don’t owe me anything.”

             A look of confusion steals over Sherlock’s face. “John—” he begins, but is prevented from continuing by a brief knock on the door.

            Mycroft enters a moment later, not waiting for a response. “Am I interrupting something?” he asks, glancing from one man to the other.

            “Always. You should be used to it by now,” Sherlock mumbles in response.

            “I was just telling Sherlock that he should ask you if you need any help finding out who The Professor is,” John says, folding his hands in his lap. His back and shoulders are aching with the effort to maintain his perfect posture, but John can’t relax even if he tried.

            Sherlock looks over at John as though the older man has betrayed him. “I’m not leaving you, John,” he says curtly.

            “Well, there’s a change in tune,” John bites back, eyes flashing with pain and anger. He takes a few measured breaths, focusing on his hands. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. It’s been a difficult…” _Few weeks? Few months? Few years?_ “…time,” he finishes.

            “You can’t make me go. Besides, we still haven’t really talked,” Sherlock says. “About…things.”

 _NOW he wants to talk_ , John thinks. _Where was this Sherlock two years ago?_ “Oh, talk, talk, talk,” he says abruptly. “’ _People do little else_.’ You hate idle conversation, Sherlock; I doubt you really want to talk. Even so, I bet Mycroft’s here to _talk_ ,” John says, his tone full of disgust. “If you want to talk so much, talk to him.” John reaches over to the bedside table and retrieves that as yet unused TV remote. He switches on the telly and turns the volume to just beyond a reasonable level, all but proscribing further conversation.

            The three of them sit there, silently watching crap telly, for over two hours, John pointedly ignoring the elaborate discussion the two Holmes have with their expressions for the first half hour.

 

*

 

            When John finally turns the TV off, after two hours of the most painfully tedious programming he’s ever experienced, Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief, then clears his throat to speak. “Now that you’re eating solid food again, I was thinking of ordering from Angelo’s,” he says, glancing over to John. “I can get someone to pick it up.”

            “I’m not hungry. But you and Mycroft should get something,” John says.

            Sherlock can see that he’s tired. Not so much the kind of tired that comes from lack of sleep, but the bone-deep fatigue that comes from being physically and emotionally drained. “If I get you some of that penne with spinach and sundried tomatoes that you like, might you be hungry a little later?” he asks.

            “I don’t know,” John answers, running a hand over his eyes. “Maybe.”

            “No need to order anything for me,” Mycroft offers. “Though I’ll be happy to send Perseus to pick it up.”

             John chuckles quietly, though there’s little humour in it. “Perseus, huh?” he asks.

            Mycroft’s answering smile is hard and thin. “Yes, well. Some like to have fun with protocol,” he says. “Dr. Watson, I know you’re terribly exhausted, but I must ask you something.”

             John shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose before taking a steadying breath and looking up at Mycroft. “Yeah, sure. What’s up?”

            “Earlier. This morning? When you told us about your abduction and subsequent torture. You didn’t mention Anthea. Can you tell me anything more about her involvement? Was she there, in the warehouse?”

            “I didn’t see her after the car. I barely saw her in the car, to be honest,” John says. “But there was a second, just a second, when she was shoving that needle into my neck? When I saw her face. She looked scared. Really, just utterly terrified.” John pauses, remembering the look he saw across Anthea’s face. “I’m sorry, Mycroft. I just don’t have anything for you.”

            “No need to apologize, Dr. Watson. It is as I feared,” Mycroft says. He rises from he seat and gathers his umbrella and attaché case. “Perseus will be back soon with your dinner,” he says before leaving.

 

*

 

           The young man enters the room a little while later and finds John leaning back on his pillows with his eyes closed, and Sherlock flipping through yesterday’s newspaper. He clears his throat. “Um, sirs? Your dinner?” he says nervously, holding up a bag of food.

            John opens his eyes and leans forward. “Thanks…is it Perseus?”

           “Yes, sir,” the young man’s ginger hair flops as he nods, confirming his identity energetically. “You can call me Percy, if you’d like though.” He quickly steps up to the bed and sets the bag next to John’s leg. “Such an honour, an absolute honour, to meet you, sir,” he says, looking at John with an uncomfortable degree of reverence.

            Sherlock reaches over and plucks the bag off the bed with a little more force than is strictly necessary. “You may leave now,” he says brusquely. “Thank you.”

            John’s head whips around to look at Sherlock, shocked by the unexpected implementation of etiquette in such a minor social exchange. He remains shocked far into his meal until he realizes:

  1. That Perseus has, indeed, left,
  2. that he's halfway through his pasta, and
  3. that Sherlock, too, is eating. And without being goaded into it.



            “You’re different, you know,” John says softly. “Before? A day in this place would have sent you ‘round the bend. You just spent an hour reading the paper, calm as you please. And now you’re eating. Without arguing with me about it. You’ve…changed.”

            “We all have. I think Lestrade would sooner quit than arrest either of us again. And surely you’ve noticed Mycroft’s increased presence. He didn’t know,” Sherlock pauses to clear his throat. “About me? Until after my funeral.”

            “Yeah, I kind of caught that he was a little more shaken about your…your death than he thought he would be,” John replies.

            “He hates how often he can’t prevent things from happening. How often he has to fix them after the fact,” Sherlock says. He looks up and catches John’s glance. “And you, John?” he sighs heavily. “You’ve changed more than any of us.”

            “Yeah, well.” John doesn’t really know how to respond. He knows he’s changed. He knows he’s more isolated, more cynical, certainly no longer likely to giggle at crime scenes. But he also knows that Sherlock was willing to leave that other man behind, so maybe the changes are good ones.

            “John, what happened? With you? The flat? You took a hundred and eight cases in the last two years. That’s absurd.”

            “One hundred and nine,” John corrects. He sighs before continuing: “I can’t do this, Sherlock. Not right now. Let’s just get out of here, yeah?” he asks hopefully. “Maybe I’ll feel more like talking when I’m not such a train wreck.”

            Sherlock just nods, though he clearly wants answers, and John thinks that Sherlock was wrong about who among them has changed the most.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

 

            John Watson can be a very convincing man when he well and truly wants something. It’s why he’s successful at getting Sherlock to eat, why he’s no longer meeting Mycroft in suspicious warehouses, and why no one from NSY has ever followed through on their myriad threats to throttle, maim, or otherwise damage Sherlock's person in any way.

            So, on John Watson’s thirteenth day in hospital, after he’s turned his not inconsiderable talents of persuasion on his third ( _and final_ ) doctor in an attempt to be released from hospital several days before said third doctor thinks it’s prudent, John is not surprised to find himself in a wheelchair (he’d had to make _some_ concessions) helmed by one very briskly moving Sherlock Holmes as they make their way to the exit.

            John is very much looking forward to being home. To being able to make tea when he wants, to ordering takeaway without nurses sending disapproving looks at the (admittedly) “nutritionally bankrupt” food he eats, and to getting Sherlock out of a chair and into bed. _Well, not into bed, “into bed,” just into bed._ John thinks quickly as the apples of his cheeks tinge a slight pink. _To sleep. So he’s not sleeping in a chair. Oh, god._ John sits up straighter in the wheelchair as Sherlock parks it on the kerb and hails a taxi.

            “I’m surprised Mycroft didn’t send a car,” John says a few minutes later, after dexterously shifting from the chair and into the cab. He’s sitting sideways with his leg up on the seat next to him.

            “He did. I ignored it,” Sherlock says from his seat across from John, his attention devoted to the world outside the window, his eyes soaking in London as the cab creeps through midmorning traffic.

            It’s the first time in nearly two weeks that the detective has been out of John’s hospital room—an absolutely staggering amount of time for a man who once got bored whilst skydiving. Using potentially sabotaged equipment. In tandem with a man who was the murderer’s next potential victim. Or the murderer himself.

            ( _It was the goggles, John. Ugh, how predictable._ )

            And though John, too, hasn’t been anywhere but a warehouse or a hospital for nearly a month, he can’t take his eyes off of Sherlock. Because, while John has lived his last two years in the hope that he would have more of these moments—more trips across London spent in comfortable silence in the back of a cab, more harried deductive conversations about prospective murderers or thieves, more playful (at least he chose to read it as playful) harassment about his blog—the fear that he’d already experienced the last of them has lived like a open wound, festering just under the surface of his thoughts. And the fact that Sherlock is sitting across from him now, knees occasionally bumping into John’s thigh, is still such a relief that he can ignore whatever is going on outside in favour of just relishing this moment. This now.

            John watches as the younger man catalogues people and places; takes note of not only the major, but also the minute changes the city has gone through in the last two years; detects minor adjustments in the social and economic makeup of neighbourhoods and businesses as they pass by. It’s only when John shifts uncomfortably in his seat that Sherlock turns back towards him.

            “What’s wrong? Are you in pain?” he asks.

            “I’m fine. Just sitting awkwardly, is all,” John answers, though, in truth, his leg aches terribly, and his ribs protest every time the driver goes over a bump or around a turn too aggressively.

            Sherlock narrows his eyes and looks at John doubtfully, but doesn’t say anything. He just turns to look back out of the window, though John catches Sherlock glancing at him out of the corner of his eye a few times before they make it home.

            Home. Where Mrs. Hudson is waiting for them in the foyer as soon as the front door opens. She nearly bursts into tears when she sees John manoeuvring up the last step and into the flat, despite his admirable proficiency with his new crutches.

            “Not so much psychosomatic now, I’m afraid,” he announces when he sees the older woman. “But at least it’s the same leg!” He says it so cheerfully the older woman can’t stop the sob that escapes from her lips. She gathers John into hug—a hug made all the more awkward because of the inclusion of his crutches.

            John looks over to Sherlock, his eyes pleading for help.            

            “Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock says quietly but with unmistakable determination. “John is twenty minutes late for his next dose of pain medication, and I suspect he’d very much like to sit down.”

            The older woman steps back and dabs a tissue to her eyes. “Oh, yes. Right. Well,” she says as she collects herself. She takes a deep breath. “I’ll be right up with some tea, then, shall I?” she asks before disappearing into her flat. And both Sherlock and John know it’s not really a question so much as a statement of intent.

            The ascent up the stairs is slow, but John is distracted from the pain it causes when Sherlock places a steadying hand on the small of the doctor’s back, the warmth spreading through him and quite possibly melting him from the inside out.

            By the time he reaches the sofa in the sitting room, John is breathing hard, his ribs protesting no matter which direction the air is headed. He doesn’t have the energy to lift his leg onto the coffee table, so he just sits there, breathing, his head leaning against the back of the sofa. He looks up when he feels first one shoe, then the other being slipped off.

            “It will start to swell,” Sherlock’s only explanation for why he’s gently lifting John’s leg and helping him shift to place it on the sofa. Next Sherlock lifts the leg just a bit higher in order to nestle the Union Jack pillow underneath. Finally, John finds himself covered in a throw blanket from the back of his chair.

            “You don’t have to do this, Sherlock. I can manage on my own,” John says.

            Sherlock looks at John as though he’s presented him with a puzzle, a very confusing puzzle. “John, I realize…” he begins, but he’s cut off by the arrival of Mrs. Hudson and a heavily laden tea tray.

            “I’ve brought you boys some sandwiches and biscuits, as well. It’s nearly lunch and you’ve got nothing in.”

            “You’re a star, Mrs. Hudson.” John gives the older woman a bright smile.

            Mrs. Hudson all but glows with the praise. “Is there anything else you boys need?” she asks.

            “I don’t want to be a bother,” John says tentatively, “but I was wondering if you might be able to pick us up a few things from Tesco’s when you’ve got a chance? I just need a few more days—then I’ll be able to go.”

            The slightly puzzled expression that had settled on Sherlock’s face had started to fade, but it’s back now in full force. “I can go, John,” he offers.

            John seems unconvinced. “You hate doing the shopping. You always come back angry. We lost nearly all our cups that one time. Then there was the time that you were so distracted by an experiment you paid and forgot the bags there. And _I_ was the one who had to pick them up.”

            “I can go, dear. It’s no trouble,” Mrs. Hudson says. She looks from John to Sherlock. “You do so hate to do the shopping.”

            “This is absurd.” Sherlock launches himself out of the chair. “I’m more than capable of doing the shopping. John, make a list.” He tosses John a pen and a notepad from the desk in a way that brooks no argument.

 

*

 

            When Sherlock returns from doing the shopping, he is, indeed, angry. And it has little to do with the tedium of Tesco’s or their absolutely idiotic clientele. All right, it has something to do with that, but what he’s really upset by is seeing John bent over the kitchen sink, using his elbows on the counter to hold himself up, washing out the cups and plates they’d used earlier. A pot is bubbling on the stove, and the water for tea has just begun to boil.

            “What do you think you’re doing?” he asks quietly, but the tone of his voice is unmistakably cold.

            John stands up so quickly he almost tips himself over. “Oh, you’re back,” he says weakly over his shoulder. He ungracefully turns around and grabs his crutches from where he’s leaned them against the table. “We had enough in the freezer and the cupboards to make soup. And I thought I’d wash up these dishes before we gave them back to Mrs. Hudson. And I fancied a cup of tea, so…” he’s rambling and he knows it, but the look on Sherlock’s face no doubt makes him nervous.

            “You’re meant to be resting!” Sherlock’s voice booms. “Not hobbling about playing housekeeper! You can be such an idiot, John.”

            John stares at him for a moment, open mouthed. “Yes,” he says so quietly it’s nearly a whisper. “All right.” He slowly makes his way into the sitting room where he arranges himself back onto the sofa.

            There’s a wounded look in his eyes that causes a painful cramp deep in Sherlock’s chest. He watches John go and feels inexplicably like the ground beneath them has shifted. Like something significant has just happened, but he’s not quite sure what it was or, more importantly, what it means.

            Sherlock suppresses a groan and sets the bags he’s still holding on the table, next to and around the lab equipment that hasn’t seen any use in years. _Is this how it’s going to be_ , he wonders as he puts away the cold foods. _How long will John be too scared to talk to me? Too timid to tell me how he feels or what he’s thinking?_ He reaches over and first turns off the boiling soup, then flicks off the teapot and prepares tea for both him and John.

            “Here,” he says as he walks into the sitting room. He hands John a cup, then settles into the space left at the end of the sofa, his thigh mere inches from John’s toes. But as close as they are, they may as well be worlds apart. The silence in the flat expands around them, filling up the space, making the air seem heavy and thick.

 

*

             

            Sometime after dark Sherlock gets up from the sofa, gathers their teacups, and heads to the kitchen. He comes back several minutes later with a bowl of soup and a fresh cup of tea for John. He pulls the coffee table closer so John can better reach it, then hands the older man the remote for the TV.

            “I’m going out,” he says when he seems satisfied with John’s setup.

            “Okay,” John says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

            He listens as Sherlock descends the staircase. Listens as the front door shuts with a soft thud. Listens as the silence that was so pervasive before Sherlock returned, a silence that unbearably ate at them all afternoon, again settles around John like a weight on his shoulders.

            John lets out a deep exhale, and tries to settle his nerves. Now that he and Sherlock are home, he’s afraid to move the wrong way, or say the wrong thing, or think the wrong thought. This afternoon, when Sherlock was gone, an overwhelming fear that his weakness and bloody _uselessness_ would be the thing that sent Sherlock running away again had him up and in the kitchen. Now Sherlock is gone and out the door because John acted stupidly.

            John tries to wait up for Sherlock. Tries to stay awake in order to see him walk back through the door. But sometime after 1am, he loses the fight and falls asleep on the sofa.

           He’s not been asleep for very long when the nightmare starts. It’s the same nightmare he had every night he tried to sleep during Sherlock’s absence. He’s supposed to meet Sherlock at a crime scene, but when he gets there Lestrade tells him that Sherlock just left. When John looks down he sees a trail of blood, and he knows, he just _knows_ it’s Sherlock’s, so he follows it, calling out for Sherlock. But whenever he thinks he’s close, or whenever he sees someone he knows, they tell him that he’s just missed Sherlock, and each one of them has this look of pity in their eyes like he’s so pathetic and doesn’t even know it.

            John ignores the look and starts running and running, yelling for Sherlock, but no matter how far or fast he runs, he can’t catch up to the other man. Until he finally does, on the sidewalk outside of St. Bart’s, where Sherlock is lying in a puddle of blood that spreads out beneath him so quickly, so _bloody_ quickly; and Sherlock turns to him and says “What use are you to me if you can’t keep up?” before he dies in John’s arms, leaving John with such an unbearable feeling of loss and anguish so excruciating that it wakes him up.

            And just like every time before, John wakes up screaming, his heart pounding, tears streaking down his cheeks. He’s sobbing violently, so he shoves his fist into his mouth to prevent Mrs. Hudson from hearing. His ribs and stomach sing with fiery pain, but he feels like he’s about to burst apart, so he curls into the back of the sofa, hoping to contain the blast.

            But unlike every time before, he soon feels strong arms curl around him, a long body lay down behind him, and hot breath on the back of his neck as a deep voice whispers “Shh, John. I’m here. It’s over. It’s all over,” over and over again, until John’s body, drained and hurting, sends him into a dreamless sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

 

            Sherlock was sure that his being witness to John’s nightmare would make John more willing to talk. He was sure his being there to bring John back from the edge of panic would grant John some measure of comfort or assurance that Sherlock wasn’t going anywhere. But, if anything, John only grew more reserved.

            There was a moment, during the second day they were back from hospital, when Sherlock thought the silence had ended.

            John had been looking at the same page in his book for over an hour, but Sherlock hadn’t said anything. He knew he was supposed to wait for John to be ready to talk, so if John needed to pretend to read while he thought, Sherlock would let him.

            “Why did you drug me?” John looked up from his book and asked quietly.

            Sherlock’s head snapped up from where he’d been typing on the laptop. He had been sure the blend of drugs he’d had one of the Homeless Network inject John with on that day—the bike messenger, if all went according to plan—wouldn’t do anything to raise John’s suspicions, but, as always and in everything, John surprised him.

            And now. Now Sherlock was sure John was ready to talk. So he said, “John, despite my occasionally harsh—though sometimes, at least situationally true—analysis of the limits of your intelligence, you possess above average intellect. I had to make sure you weren’t working at full capacity or you would have seen straight through my charade. Though, it seems, despite my efforts, you have done so anyway.”

             John had simply nodded once, then gone back to reading his book.

             The silence crowded in around them again, broken only when Sherlock would ask John if he needed anything. And John would say “no” only to get up ten or twenty minutes later to make them tea, or to retrieve a book or his laptop or another pillow. And every time John winced or made a sound of discomfort, Sherlock would look up from his laptop or book or newspaper or experiment, and ask “Are you in pain?” John would deny feeling anything and school his expression into blankness.

             Silence reigns in 221B until late on the third day, when, despite having spent another night on the sofa, John refuses to accept Sherlock’s offer to switch bedrooms so John doesn’t have to climb another staircase in order to get to a bed—so he can actually sleep in a bed instead of on the sofa, “which is not good for your back, shoulder, or leg, John!” Because Sherlock can tell how much John hurts, but John refuses to say anything except that he’s “fine” to Sherlock.

              “I don’t want to displace you, Sherlock. Besides, this sofa has seen more of me than my bed has over the last two years. I’m just fine,” John tries to assure him.

              “That’s enough!” Sherlock yells. He throws his book across the room, the pages shattering into a paper explosion when it hits the opposing wall. “I’ve been home for a month. A month. You’ve been gone for half of that, in hospital for the other half. I just want to be home. With you. And I want our lives back. I want to drink tea with you, and watch crap telly with you. I want to do experiments that smell dreadful, and I want thumbnails in the sugar bowl, and I want you to tell me that you hate it. I want to play Tchaikovsky at 3am, and I want you to storm out here, only to listen and wait until after I’ve finished the song I’m playing to tell me to shut up. I want you to force me to eat, and force me to sleep, and…and…I just want _you_ back. And I want _you_ to _talk to me_.” Sherlock finishes and he looks at John with eyes full of such sorrow and vulnerability and _longing_ that John’s breath catches in his chest.

              “I haven’t lost my ability to read you in my absence,” Sherlock says. He gets up and moves to look out of the window. “And you haven’t gained the ability to lie. You leg and ribs hurt. Within the next twenty minutes your hand and stomach will also begin to cause you pain, as it’s been two hours and,” Sherlock pauses and looks at the clock, “forty-two minutes since you last took your pain medication.

              “You keep touching your stomach, but it’s not yet causing you pain, so you’re hungry, but you also know you can’t get up again, not yet, not so soon after your last trip to the loo, because you’re fairly certain the use of the crutches is making your shoulder pain worse. Quite right, I’m afraid. But despite being hungry, in need of more pain medication, and probably a strong cup of tea, you refuse me _every time_ I ask if you need anything. You refuse my help, you refuse to look at me, and you refuse to talk to me. So I’m left to wonder, John, what it will take to make you understand that I’m here and _I’m trying_. Or whether it might not be easier if I just…left.”

            From behind him he can make out the sound of a muffled sob, but Sherlock can’t turn around. He can’t comfort John, because he cannot see this broken, _broken_ man cry again. He can’t. So he watches the way the lamplights cast shadows on the street below. He watches a couple walk by, hand in hand. They’re laughing and smiling with such unrestrained happiness that it makes Sherlock _hurt_. Emotion has never been such a physical thing for him, and now he feels it burning through his entire body.

            After a few minutes he hears John clear his throat. “I knew you weren’t dead. I mean, I didn’t _know_ ,” John says behind him. His voice is stronger than Sherlock’s heard it in days. “I didn’t have any _proof_ , but I didn’t really need it. I just…believed, I guess. Sometimes belief is stronger.”

            “Stronger than what?” Sherlock asks.

            “Proof? Doubt? Lies? Sherlock, they could’ve told me you’d gone off with a man in a blue police box and I’d have believed it sooner than thinking you were either a fraud or dead.”

             Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Doctor Who reference? Now?” He turns to John, who just shrugs his shoulders.

            “Perfect reference; you think it’s ridiculous. Maybe about as ridiculous as me believing you were dead.” John sighs, “Besides, I figured any Bond reference would have been at least partly true.”

            Sherlock doesn’t respond, his silence revealing the truth behind the statement.

            “It was easy to believe, anyway. I mean, after Irene? And she wasn’t nearly as clever as you.”

            “You said that. That day. That I could be ‘that clever’.”

            “Yeah, well. That’s what I believed.” John looks, really looks Sherlock in the eyes for the first time. “That’s what I _believe_.”

            “Believe, believe, _believe_!” Sherlock throws his hands in the air as he begins to pace. “What about _proof_ , John? What about _knowledge_?”

             “Do you know what they did to _prove_ your genius?” John asks, finally with some fire in his voice. “Do you know how they cleared your name?”

            Sherlock stops in front of the window again and looks out, a nearly invisible shake of his head indicating that he doesn’t know. Mycroft tried to tell him, but at the time he hadn’t cared. He was in the process of tracking down the sniper who’d been assigned to Mrs. Hudson when his name was finally cleared.

            “The only way they could prove who you _were_ , was to prove who Richard Brook _wasn’t_ —who Moriarty _was_.” John pauses. “Sherlock, you’re beyond extraordinary. The way your mind works? There’s no proving that. There is only belief. And I didn’t doubt mine in you. Not once. Not my belief in your abilities, and not my belief that you were alive.”

            “How long?” Sherlock asks, still looking out the window, hands clasped behind his back. “How long would you have gone on believing in me?”

            John exhales heavily. “I don’t know. Oh, I never would have doubted your brilliance. But I don’t know how much longer I would have held on to your being alive somewhere. So much could have happened to you. You could have been killed,” John says, then continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “You could have not wanted to come back.”

            Sherlock turns to look at him—at John, carefully examining his hands in his lap, sitting on the sofa still so thoroughly wrapped in bandages, the swelling in his cheek finally receding to leave behind a face slightly older than the one Sherlock had dreamt about so often when he was away. “Is that what you thought? That I didn't want to come home?” he asks, his words carried out on the wave of a breath.

            “I thought, for a long, long time, about which would be worse: watching you commit suicide, or watching you fake your death and then disappear. The painfully obvious answer is that I’d rather you disappeared. Of course it is.

            “But then I started to think: Why did he leave me? Why didn’t he tell me what was going on? Why didn’t he _trust_ me? There were so many more questions to ask with a disappearance. So many reasons to doubt our...friendship. It’s funny,” John says, offering a humourless laugh, “At first, when I still thought you were dead, I felt _so guilty_. I kept trying to think of what I could have done to help you—to show you that—no matter what happened, what was said, what accusations were tossed at you—I believed in you. To show you how much I…I cared.” John inhales sharply, then reaches for his side, forgetting briefly how much broken ribs and quick breaths work against one another. After a moment he continues.

             “But even after I realized you were alive, the guilt stayed behind. I still wondered how I could have helped, but I also tried to figure out what I’d done to make you doubt me. Tried to remember at what point I’d shown you that I was weak or scared. I couldn’t figure it out,” John says, his gaze shifting from his hands to the window. “But you always could see what others couldn’t.” He pauses for a moment, thinking, still wondering what Sherlock had seen that he hadn’t.

             “John, I…” Sherlock tries to speak, but realizes belatedly that he doesn’t know quite what to say. Instead he collapses into his chair, elbows on his knees his hands covering his mouth.

              John shakes his head. “So I decided to do whatever I could to make your homecoming as easy for you as possible. To prove I wasn’t as weak or useless as you’d come to believe. I kept everything as you left it, I started the crime spreadsheet, I even tracked down some people online who sell rare and probably wildly illegal chemicals that you might want to use in your experiments. I…I didn’t get anything from them, because I didn’t know when you’d be home, but there’s a file on my laptop with all the information,” he continues, pointing to his laptop on the coffee table.

             “I worked as much as I could so that we’d have some money saved up, so you wouldn’t have to take a case when you came back unless you really wanted it. And I started working cases. Boring, awful cases that would have had you shooting walls…or people…but it was money, and it kept your name out there. So that when you came back people would remember you, and what you do. You wouldn’t have to wait for clients, because you’d already have them.”

             Sherlock’s hands migrate from his mouth to clutch painfully at his hair, hoping real, actual, physical pain might distract him from the way his emotions are running rampant inside his heart, head, and gut.

             “But then, after a while,” John continues, “after days and weeks, and then years of waiting, I started to wonder how long I was supposed to wait. What if you never came home? Does that mean you didn’t care? Or that you never cared?” John glances at Sherlock briefly, a sad smile on his face. “I know. Caring isn’t really your area. What can I say? Dark days. Anyway, once I got past that, I started to wonder if maybe you…if something had happened,” John’s voice breaks. “And if you were gone now—if you were…dead, were you alone? When it happened? Or did you have someone? Someone you could trust.”

              And suddenly it all seems so sad and heavy, and for a moment Sherlock’s crushed by the weight of emotions he has only really just begun to experience. That his friend—his best friend—the man he…the man he _loves_ has lived for two years like this, waiting for him without any answers and without reassurance that he would return. He’s suddenly so dizzy he feels like he might pass out, so puts his head between his knees and laces his fingers together on the back of his neck. The magnitude of what he’s made John endure is too great, too big, and he knows he’ll never be worthy of it.

 

*

 

           “Oh, god,” John says with realization. “This is what the looks in the nightmare are about.” He sucks in a frantic breath, then emits a groan. Sherlock is hunched over in his chair, seemingly frozen on the razor edge of a panic attack because John _can’t keep his fucking mouth shut_. He’d said far, _far_ too much and now Sherlock—ignorant of emotions on a good day, derisive and contemptuous towards them on a bad—is overwhelmed and more likely now than ever to leave.

            John’s quick breaths join Sherlock’s in the otherwise quiet of the sitting room, a poignant duet of panic. Then he remembers kissing Sherlock the night he came home. “Fuck. I kissed you. I’ve made an absolute bloody embarrassing fool of myself!” He’s starting to breathe hard, and his body starts to shudder, and John knows he’s moments away from the kind of full-blown attack he hasn’t had since he first came back from Afghanistan. “You must think I’m so pathetic. _Everyone_ must think I’m so pathetic.”

            John’s eyes refuse to focus, but he notices Sherlock unfold from his chair and get up, John assumes to disappear into his bedroom. But then the younger man is kneeling next to John and bracing his hands on either side of John’s face, forcing him to look into Sherlock’s eyes.

            “John Watson, don’t you dare talk about yourself like that,” Sherlock says, his voice low and fierce. “There’s never been a less pathetic human on this earth. I never thought that anyone could care for someone as you care for me, and even if I did, I never dreamt I could be on the receiving end of such care.” Sherlock brushes the pads of his thumbs gently over John’s cheekbones, a touch so gentle it feels like a breath.

            “You have taught me so much, John,” Sherlock continues. “You’ve taught me about quiet strength; fierce, _fierce_ loyalty; and again and again about bravery in spite of fear; you’ve shown me that I have friends, and that I’m capable of _so much more_ than everyone believed was possible.” Sherlock’s hands begin to shake, his voice begins to shake, his whole body begins to shake, so John reaches up and takes hold of Sherlock’s hands and holds them firmly in his own.

             Sherlock groans softly. “I’m not good at this, John. I don’t do or say the right things.”

             John pulls in a shaky breath, but when he speaks his voice is strong. “You’re doing perfectly,” he says, squeezing Sherlock’s hands.

             “I love you, John Watson,” Sherlock says, and though his voice breaks, the look he gives John is certain and sure; his eyes are full of such raw emotion that John can’t mistake their sincerity. “I think I have maybe from the first moment I saw you. But I was too stupid and stubborn to recognize it until that kiss the night I came back, so don’t you _dare_ call yourself foolish for that because it was in _that moment_ that you taught me that I’m capable of love. So no, John. You are not a fool, and you are _not_ pathetic. You are beautiful and incredible and _essential_ and…and…and I’d really like to kiss you now,” he finishes, and he looks at John with such awe and reverence and gratitude that John doesn’t make him wait.

              It’s not a movie kiss. It’s not clean and pretty and flawlessly choreographed. It’s messy and awkward, full of teeth and bumped noses. It’s desperate, fueled by the need to touch—to finally _connect_ —to prove to one another that they’re here, together and _alive_.

              It’s an incredibly profound feeling, getting exactly what you’ve wished for, and it hits John full on when he finally pulls away from Sherlock to catch his breath. He’s wanted Sherlock, like this, safe and in his arms, for so long the fantasy of it had become his own sort of legend—so far removed from reality that it was no longer a possibility but a lovely fiction to imagine. Like a fairytale.

              Panting heavily into the side of Sherlock’s neck, feeling the other man’s quick breaths ruffle his hair, John is again swept up in the fear of losing him. He clutches at the fabric on the front of Sherlock’s shirt in a grip as strong as steel, incapable of releasing him.

              “It’s all right,” Sherlock is whispering near his ear. “I’m here.”

               John nods almost imperceptibly, but still can’t convince his cramping fingers to let go of the other man’s shirt.

              “I’m not going anywhere, John,” Sherlock says, leaning back as far as the doctor’s grip will allow so he’s able to look him in the eyes. “Except to bed. Will you join me?”

              “I don’t think I can…do anything. Not yet.” A pained expression crosses John’s face. “I…I hurt. Too much,” he finally admits. And it’s the truth. The last few days of attempted independence, along with the last hour’s emotional upheaval, and the last few minutes of fairly intense snogging, have left him weak and in a great deal of pain. He wouldn’t change it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not come at a cost.

              “Just to sleep, John,” Sherlock assures him with a gentle smile. He covers John’s hands with his own, and slowly, _slowly_ John’s fingers flex and release. “Let’s go,” Sherlock says as he stands. He reaches out his hand and helps John up, and offers his arm as an alternative to the crutches.

              Before long they’re carefully tucked away in Sherlock’s bed, the duvet pulled up to their chins. Their foreheads rest against one another, and their hands lay between them, clasped together, a reminder in the dark that the other is there and isn’t go anywhere.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

 

            Sometime in the night, when the only light in the room oozes in under the curtains from the streetlamps outside, John wakes up, and for the first time in a very long time, he doesn’t need to worry about what the world on the other side of his eyelids is like. A gangly leg has slung itself over his own good leg, two slim arms are wrapped around one of his own, and, unless he’s wildly mistaken (and if he is, there are a hell of a lot of new questions to answer) the soft puff of breath against his neck is from one still-sleeping consulting detective whose head is resting heavily on John’s shoulder.

            John breathes in deeply, slowly, the smell of a sleep-warm Sherlock filling him. It feels a little like breathing Sherlock himself in—Sherlock-infused oxygen feeding his blood. Maybe he should be disturbed by the direction of his sleep-addled thinking, but he’s already drifting back into the darkness and can’t be bothered to care.

 

*

 

            The next time John wakes up, he opens his eyes and is met by a familiar grey-green gaze so close it makes his own eyes go cross.

Sherlock, still woven around John’s limbs like morning glory vines, is tracing John’s hairline with his finger. Noticing John is now awake, he leans back and grabs some pills and a glass of water from the bedside table, then pushes the pills into John’s mouth. Once the doctor has a mouthful of water, Sherlock leans back again and deposits the glass back on the bedside table, before resuming his previous position: head resting on John’s shoulder, finger tracing lazy lines around John’s face. “The Theory of Negative Capability,” Sherlock says in lieu of a more traditional morning greeting.

            John swallows his pain medication dutifully, then chuckles softly. “I’m sorry, what?”

            “The Theory of Negative Capability. John Keats,” Sherlock responds, clearly thinking he’s explained everything. He starts tracing John’s jaw.

            “If you’re going to start reciting poetry to me now, I’ll know you’ve officially gone round the twist.”

            Sherlock groans, then leans in and places a firm but chaste kiss on John’s lips.

            John huffs a breath. “So. Last night. That really happened.”

            “Of course. How else would you have wound up in my bed?” Sherlock asks, confusion drawing his eyebrows together.

            John reaches out and smoothes the line between them with his finger. “Sleep walked?” he tries with meager conviction.

            “I’ve never known you to be prone to somnambular excursions. Surely I would have noticed. Is this a new development?”

            John recognizes the look that’s on Sherlock’s face now; he’s about to get examined and analyzed and catalogued. “No, no,” John laughs, allaying the detective’s fear that he’s missed something. “No sleep walking.” He stretches out his neck to return Sherlock’s kiss. “Is this okay?” he asks, pulling back.

            A slow smile spreads across Sherlock’s face. His real one—the smile John has come to think of as the one for him alone. “Yes, quite,” the younger man responds.

            “Wait, how did Keats not get deleted?” John asks.

            “He did, in large part. It’s the theory that I kept,” Sherlock answers. “I like theories.” He lazily shrugs the shoulder that’s not resting on the bed.

            “Ah, I see,” John says quietly as he runs the pad of his thumb across Sherlock’s cheekbone. “So if I come up with the Theory of John Watson, I won’t get deleted?”

            Sherlock scoffs at the suggestion. “Don’t be absurd, John. I couldn’t delete you if I tried. Not that I would, of course.” He goes back to tracing John’s face, this time the curvature of his ear. “You’re indelibly in the construction of my mind palace now. My thoughts and memories of you are painted on the walls, inlayed in the floors. You exist in nearly every room, down every hall, in every locked box and chest of drawers.”

            “Careful: that was almost poetry,” John’s voice is rough when he responds. His hand settles on his chest as he leans back and looks at the ceiling. “That’s a lot of me in your head. What if you get bored of me?” It’s a question—a fear—John’s had from the moment he became aware of his feelings for Sherlock—affection and anxiety borne simultaneously in one moment of realization—of that inevitable day when Sherlock is just…done with him.

            “I calculate that moment to be approximately sixty-three years from now, at the earliest. By then I’ll be used to you, though, so I’ll keep you around for convenience.”

            John looks back at Sherlock, who’s grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary, and starts laughing at the detective’s cheekiness. He’s cut off abruptly when Sherlock presses in and captures his mouth in a heated, open-mouthed kiss.

            “I’ve wanted to do since the day after we met,” Sherlock says after a few moments, when he pulls back and settles his head on John’s chest.

            “What’s that?” John asks.

            Sherlock rubs his thumb over John’s reddened lips. “Taste your laugh.”

            John snakes his arm under Sherlock and pulls him closer. “So what about this theory, then?” he asks several quiet minutes later.

            The younger man is fiddling with the frayed collar of John’s soft cotton shirt. “’When a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason’,” he quotes.

            “And what ‘uncertainties’ do you have?” John asks, slowly stroking Sherlock’s side with his thumb.

            “I find myself in the curious position of having many, John,” Sherlock answers, looking up into John’s deep blue eyes. “Every one of them is to do with you. And for the first time in my life, I’m all right with them. I am, in point of fact, delighted with it.”

            John looks down at Sherlock, whose chin is resting on John’s chest, and doesn’t know what to say. He can’t remember a time when not knowing something left Sherlock anything but frantic and agitated.

            “You’re my mystery, John. And though I’m never going to stop trying to figure you out, I’m so thrilled by the process that I don’t care if I never find all of the answers. Thus: the Theory of Negative Capability.”

            John’s has to clear his throat a few times before he trusts himself to speak. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this,” he admits. “I just wanted you home. I never _dreamt_ I could have you like this.”

            “And how is that, John?” Sherlock asks, still looking at John’s eyes, though his hand has moved to John’s waist, his fingertips resting just under the edge of John’s shirt against the warm skin they find there.

            “Here. With me,” John tries to explain. “ _With_ me.”

            “Yours, then. You never imagined I would be yours.”

            John looks down into Sherlock’s eyes. “Is that what you are? Mine?” His voice carries a note of surprise.

            “If you want me,” Sherlock says without a moment’s hesitation.

            A smile spreads across John’s face, lighting it up like fairy lights at Christmas. “Only from the moment I met you. Just took me a while to realize.”

            “Good. Then I am. And you’re mine. I appreciate equality in a relationship. Well, I’ve never really been in one before, but it seems like something to aim for. Equality.”

            John laughs. “Oh, do you think so? Does that transfer into household chores, too?”

            “I’m open to negotiation.” Sherlock turns his head to lay it back down on John’s shoulder.

John kisses the blue-black curls on the top of younger man’s head, then closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of being Sherlock’s. _Sherlock’s what, though?_ “So. What are we now, then?” he asks.

            Sherlock thinks for a moment. “I suppose we’re still friends. But so much more. Then again, we’ve always been more than friends, haven’t we?”

            “Feels like it,” John says gently.

“I don’t like the term ‘boyfriends’,” Sherlock admits. “I’m not sixteen, anymore.”

            “How about _lovers_?” John says, placing an exaggerated emphasis on the term. The silliness of referring to Sherlock as his _lover_ makes him chuckle.

            “Absolutely not. I have a reputation to maintain,” Sherlock says, making John laugh. “Partners?” he offers.

            “Only if you mean it,” John says quietly.

            “Of course, I--,” Sherlock starts before John cuts him off.

            “No, Sherlock. Before you so readily agree, you need to think about it. Because I can’t do this again. I can’t sit around in the dark while you make unilateral decisions about our future. I can’t be left wondering if you’re alive or dead or…”

            Sherlock leans in kisses John hard before he can really work himself up into a lather. When he’s convinced John has settled down he pulls away. “I had to. I _had_ to, John. Moriarty had snipers trained on Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and you. And if I were put in the same situation, knowing what I knew then, I would make the same decision over and over again just to save you,” his eyes are dark and fierce. He sighs before continuing, “But now—knowing the consequences—I’d never do that to you again. I’d find another way.”

            John nods once and settles back against his pillow. A few quiet minutes later he says, “You know kissing me to make me shut up is going to get annoying really quickly, right?”

            With a sly smile on his face, Sherlock rolls over and straddles John’s good leg, then settles his elbows on either side of John’s body. “Then I better take advantage while I still can,” he says, dipping toward John to capture his lips again.

            Several minutes later, sweet, leisurely kisses have grown into the hot slide of tongues and breathy moans. John brings his hands up to rest on Sherlock’s hips. His thumbs catch under the edge of Sherlock’s shirt and touch heated skin, but it’s not enough. He slides one hand up to press against the soft pale skin on the small of Sherlock’s back, and the other hand shifts down to firmly cup Sherlock’s arse.

            The pressure for release builds between them with the force of a freight train as Sherlock rocks against John’s hips. It takes several long, scorching seconds before either of them recognize the buzzing of the doorbell as something other than the thrumming of blood in their ears; to parse it out from the wet sound Sherlock’s lips make when he sucks on John’s neck; to acknowledge it as something other than the deep sighs and stuttering whimpers they pass between each other.

            Sherlock groans into John’s mouth a minute later when the buzzer doesn’t stop ringing.

            “Mrs. Hudson will get it,” John assures him, using his hand on Sherlock’s arse to press the other man more firmly into him.

            Sherlock looks over John’s shoulder at the alarm clock on the bedside table. “No, she has Tai Chi now,” he says before a half-sob, half-moan leaks past his teeth.

            John’s eyes close when he pushes his hips up into Sherlock’s. “Just. Ignore. It,” he whines.

            Sherlock starts to nod his head until the buzzing turns into a staccato beat that throws off his rhythm. “Ugh!” he screams. “Go away!” But he’s already launched himself off the bed and is grabbing his dressing gown. “Don’t. Move,” he says, pointing at John sternly.

            John hears Sherlock’s heavy footfall as he rumbles down the stairs, then blessed silence as the doorbell finally stops buzzing. He chuckles at the realization that he was just about to get off in his pants for the first time in nearly twenty years. _We may not be teenagers, anymore_ , he thinks, _but we’re certainly acting like it._

            He’s starting to get curious several minutes later when Sherlock still hasn’t returned.

 

*

 

            The closer Sherlock gets to the front door, the more prepared he is to level his most acidic, scathing invectives against whoever happens to be on the other side. He’s dismayed that they will go completely to waste, then, when who he finds on the other side of the door is a fourteen-year-old homeless girl named Maddie, who’s looking around like she’s certain the grim reaper will appear behind her at any moment. Sherlock’s only seen the girl twice before, when he’d gone out to look for John during his captivity—but both times she’d been with an older woman ( _Colleen? Corrine?_ ); the old woman is nowhere to be seen now.

            “You gotta let me in, Mr. Holmes. I think someone’s followin’ me,” Maddie says frantically.

            “Yes, yes,” Sherlock sighs as he steps back from the doorway. “Get inside.” He sticks his head outside briefly, but doesn’t see anything suspicious. “Upstairs,” he dictates as he closes and locks the door.

            Once upstairs, he gestures towards John’s chair. “Have a seat,” he says, before settling into his own chair. “Care to tell me why you’re here, Maddie?” he asks. He crosses one leg over the other, then folds his hands together.

            The young girl shifts uneasily in the chair. “You see, I was with Connie a few weeks ago when you asked her to let you know if she saw anythin’ weird. Well, we maybe was where we shouldn’ta been, and we maybe saw somethin’ we wasn’t supposed to see,” Maddie says.

            Sherlock can tell the little girl is on the verge of crying, and desperately wants to prevent such emotional outbursts, so he decides to refrain from correcting her grammar and pushes on with his questioning. “What did you see, Maddie?” he asks.

             “So I know this bloke, yeah? Names Mickey. He works with some of them charities. Packs up food and water, and, like, stuff for school in crates for them people over there in Iraq or Iran or somethin’? Anyway, when Mickey’s workin’ this job he’ll tell me, right? And if some stuff just never makes it into the crate, no one really cares, yeah? I mean, it’s nothin’ worth anythin’ to people who have it. Anyway, Connie and I was near these warehouses yesterday, and we see these crates that have pictures on ‘em, same as the ones Mickey usually does. So Connie and me decide to see if Mickey’s workin’…” Maddie stops suddenly when she hears a noise behind her. She jumps and nearly runs from the room when John comes thumping into the sitting room on his crutches.

             “It’s all right, Maddie. He’s safe,” Sherlock reassures the young girl before she has a chance to take flight. “This is John, my…partner,” he says, a small smile warming his face. He looks over to John. “You moved.”

              John huffs a laugh. “It’s been twenty minutes. I thought you got lost.”

             One corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up before he starts explaining the presence of the young girl in their sitting room. “Maddie here thinks she’s in a spot of bother over something she and a friend saw in a warehouse. Something having to do with the relief supplies being sent to the Middle East, if I’m not mistaken.” Sherlock looks back to the young girl who’s still looking at John suspiciously. “Please, sit back down, Maddie. John is the most trustworthy man I know. Even if he wasn’t, surely you could best a man on crutches.”

             The girl is slow to react, but she’s soon sitting back down in the armchair.

             “Tell you what. Why don’t I go make us all some breakfast while you two talk,” John suggests. “How’s that sound, Maddie?” he turns to ask the girl.

             “I could eat,” she says with feigned nonchalance.

              John nods his head, then disappears into the kitchen.

             “I take it Mickey wasn’t at the warehouse?” Sherlock asks by way of reentering the conversation.

             “No, there were these other blokes. Three of ‘em. Huge, they were. Soon as I saw Mickey wasn’t there, Connie and me, we shoulda left. But Connie, she’s not so fast, yeah? And she’s not been feelin’ too well, so we just ducked down behind some boxes. Thought we could wait ‘em out. But then Connie started coughin’. Well, that was our decision made right there. We took off runnin’ with them big guys followin’ close behind. I tried to help Connie, but she couldn’t keep up. She tripped, so I turned to help her up. That’s when I saw what they were puttin’ in them crates. Guns, Mr. Holmes. Whole crates full of ‘em.”

             “Where’s Connie now, Maddie?” Sherlock asks quietly.

             Maddie starts to cry, fat tears slipping unchecked down her cheeks. “They got her, Mr. Holmes. Grabbed her. She told me to run, and I did. But you gotta help me, Mr. Holmes. Connie, she’s been sorta takin’ care of me. I can’t…I can’t just leave her like that.”

             “Yes, right.” Sherlock nods once. “Well, why don’t you go through to the kitchen and eat whatever John’s put together while I get ready. Then you can show me where these crates are.”


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

 

            After placing a heaping plateful of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast in front of Maddie, John follows Sherlock into his room. “We talked about this less than an hour ago. Literally. This _very_ thing,” John says in a harsh whisper after closing the bedroom door behind him. 

             “Really, John. I thought you of all people would see the importance of this.” The younger man stops tucking his black button up into his trousers and looks up at John, giving him a calculating glance. “What would you have me do? Ignore this? Tell the girl there’s nothing I can do?” Sherlock returns to getting dressed, buttoning his trousers, then smoothing down the front of his shirt. 

             “No,” John says, huffing a frustrated breath. “I would have you safe. Here. With me. And not getting killed by suspected gun smugglers.” John knows he’ll lose this argument; more so, he knows he _should_ lose this argument. Sherlock _does_ need to go figure out what’s going down at the warehouse. But that doesn’t mean John has to be happy about it. “And what am I supposed to do while you go swanning off again?” he asks, all but admitting his defeat.

              Sherlock shrugs into his suit jacket while looking around for his shoes. “You’re supposed to stay safe. You’re supposed to relax and heal,” he says as though it were obvious.

              “Do you want me to stay barefoot and in the kitchen, too?” John asks sharply.

              Sherlock looks up abruptly, responding to the tone in John’s voice, but John can tell from the confused expression on the detective’s face that the meaning of his comment is lost on Sherlock. _Just as well, really_ , he thinks.

              John sighs heavily. “Fine, go. But Lestrade has to go with you,” he concedes. Sherlock starts to argue, but John cuts him off. “No, Sherlock! This is the deal. Greg needs to fill in for me until I go with you again. You want to be in a relationship with me? You have to make the effort. There are compromises to make. This is one of them, and it’s a decision you have to make right now.”

 

*

 

               Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he analyzes John’s posture—his shoulders are tense, back straight, his chin jutted out. If he were capable of it, John would be standing in his most intimidating Army Captain pose. Sherlock knows this stance; it means John’s serious and he’s going to be stubborn about this foolishness. “Yes, fine,” Sherlock finally agrees. “I’ll call him from the cab.”

               “No, you’ll get him to meet you here,” John pushes.

               An embarrassing whine leaks out of Sherlock’s mouth before he has the chance to stop it. “But they might be getting away as we speak!” he argues.

               “Sherlock, they’ve had all night to get away. If anything is still there now, chances are it’ll be there twenty minutes from now,” he assures the detective. “Now, call Greg, then come get some breakfast,” John says before turning to open the bedroom door.

               “I’m not hungry,” Sherlock says, very nearly pouting.

               “I’m dating a five year old trapped in a man’s body,” John mutters as he clunks into the kitchen.

               The statement catches Sherlock off guard, reminding him sharply of his new reality. _Dating_ , he thinks. _Are we dating? I thought we were in a relationship. Is that the same thing? I’m in a relationship with John_ , he thinks, and suddenly asking Lestrade to join him and eating the breakfast John’s made don’t seem like such big compromises to make after all.

 

               Less than a half an hour later Lestrade and Maddie are waiting for Sherlock in the DI’s car, while he’s still in the flat trying to say goodbye to John. John who’s just said “Call me,” at which Sherlock can’t help but make a face, no matter how hard he tries not to.

               John rolls his eyes and groans. “Fine. _Text_ me if anything happens. Or to let me know you’re okay. Or if you need me. Not that I’ll be able to do anything.”

               It doesn’t take even a fraction of Sherlock’s deductive powers to know John’s rambling is borne out of heightened anxiety. Quite frankly, he’s not feeling particularly immune to the sensation at the moment, either. Not that he’d ever let John know. In truth, he’d had every intention of postponing his return to casework until after John was fully healed; the idea of working a case without his doctor now leaves him feeling…uninspired. But he needs to find out what happened to Connie ( _of_ course _! Connie!_ ), and the smuggling of firearms to an area that’s heavily monitored for just such a thing is cause for concern—and indicative of an organization where someone with considerable power or a great number of resources ( _or an overabundance of stupidity_ ) is in charge.

               “Mrs. Hudson will be home soon if you need anything,” he reminds John. “And you can, of course, text me if you need me.”

               “I’ll be fine,” John assures him. “You need to get going; Greg and Maddie are waiting.”

               “Right. Yes. Well, then,” Sherlock says, then turns and walks out the door. He makes it halfway down the stairs before he turns and runs right back up them. He rushes into the sitting room and finds John collapsed into his chair. He leans down and presses a hard kiss on the other man’s lips. “Forgot,” Sherlock says with a wide grin. “I can do that now; we’re _dating_.” And he’s back off again down the stairs yelling, “I’ll be back as soon as I can!” before closing the front door with a bang.

 

*

 

            It had taken all but the Jaws of Life to get the detective to leave the flat. If Sherlock had asked John one more time if he needed anything before he left, John would have thrown something. Hard. Probably at Sherlock.

            Once the decision to go and investigate the warehouse had been made, John wanted it done and dusted. The sooner Sherlock went, the sooner he came back. And though the knowledge that Greg was with him helped, now that Sherlock was gone John couldn’t help but worry. Nothing made anxiety worse than the opportunity to dwell on it, and the more John sat there, the more he imagined all of the things that could go wrong at the warehouse. Which is what finally motivated him to get up and shower.

            Ordinarily, John loves showers. He can normally shower half-awake or half-asleep and have no trouble. That’s why people take them when they wake up or before going to bed, right? But with a full leg cast showering becomes a chore. Between sealing his leg up in the watertight cast protector, manoeuvring about the bathroom and shower with limited ease, and nearly taking a tumble on no fewer than three occasions, by the time John emerges from the steamy bathroom nearly an hour later clad only in a pair of pants and his dressing gown, John is knackered and more than a little ready for nice cuppa and a kip on the sofa.

            What he is decidedly _not_ ready for is Mycroft sitting in Sherlock’s chair in the sitting room, reading the newspaper as though it’s just a normal morning at home.

            “Uh, Mycroft. What can I do for you?” John asks hesitantly as he thumps awkwardly into the room. He lowers himself into his chair and pulls his dressing gown around him more securely.

            Mycroft looks up from the paper in his hands and offers John a tight, though seemingly sincere, smile. “Ah, good morning, John. You’re looking well.”

            “Did you actually wait for Sherlock to leave before coming?” John asks. He really thought they were beyond that now. Apparently not.

            “Can I get you anything? A cup of tea, perhaps?” Mycroft suggests.

            John sighs. “And now I _know_ you want something. What is it?”

            Mycroft leans back in the chair and crosses his legs. “The autopsy just came back on the body found in Eileen Clark’s home, confirming it was, indeed, Mrs. Clark.”

            John swears softly to himself and pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Thanks for letting me know, I guess.” He glances over at Mycroft. “That still doesn’t answer my question, though. You wouldn’t come here to tell me that.”

            The older Holmes steeples his hands beneath his chin and studies John for a moment before speaking. “We’ve tried to question Denise Clark, but she’s…resisting. I have no real pretext to bring her in aside from this issue, and our efforts at convincing her to do so on her own have been futile.”

            “What do you want me to do about it?” John asks, unable to mask his confusion.

            “I was hoping that with your, shall we call it, _specific knowledge_? regarding Ms. Clark’s situation, that you might prove to be more successful at inducing her to talk to me.”

            John shifts forward in his chair. “Let me get this straight. You want me to threaten a woman whose just lost her mum, into coming to talk to you, using the very secret her mum died protecting?”

            Mycroft begins to argue, “Dr. Watson, I know this puts you—“ before John cuts him off.

            “I didn’t prevent a blackmail; I just put the information into different hands!” John says, visibly distraught.

            “Ms. Clark needn’t take me into her confidence, though I’ve no doubt whatever she’s hiding will come out in due course. I just need you to get her to talk to me about the blackmailer. I need to know what he or she expects from Ms. Clark in return for his or her silence.”

            “You mean the _other_ blackmailer,” John says caustically.

            “Dr. Watson, this is obviously a complicated situation, and I know I’m putting you in a terrible position, but I assure you the confidentiality of Ms. Clark’s secret will not be put at risk. The unfortunate fact is that she is not alone in her predicament. My team has recently been made aware of two other such cases, making five in total, and so far no one is willing to talk to me. To stop the apparent spread of this situation—and to understand just how pervasive this problem is—I need as much information as I can garner, and Ms. Clark is our best chance. And you, John, are our best chance at getting to Ms. Clark.”

            John worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a few moments. He’d been put in similar situations during the war: forced in making a decision to sacrifice one for the sake of many. It was never an easy decision to make, and no matter what he decided it always ate at him; whether he’d made the right choice or not was immaterial—someone always suffered.

            “What’s at stake here?” he asks after several minutes.

            “That’s the problem, John. I’m not sure. It could be very little, but I suspect, given the scope of our blackmailer’s operation, and the fact that it’s the government, what’s at risk could be very significant, indeed.”

            “You think this might be The Professor?”

            “I don’t know,” Mycroft admits.

            “You don’t know much about this, do you?” John says, though it’s not really a question.

            “And you wondered why I waited for Sherlock to leave,” Mycroft divulges.

            “I knew it,” John says, huffing out a laugh. “So, do you want me to call her?”

            “I can’t be certain her phones haven’t been tapped, nor do I think she’d willingly talk on one, so no. I think it’s best if you speak to her face-to-face.”

            “And how do I go about doing that?” he asks.

            “If you’ll just get dressed and come with me, Dr. Watson.”

 

*

 

            “You sure this is the right place?” Lestrade asks a while later. It took over an hour for the three of them to wind their way through heavy mid-morning traffic to the warehouses near the docks, and Lestrade is worried they’ve just missed the smugglers because of the frustrating delay. He’d have used his sirens, but he’s off the clock, and he needs to be careful to maintain that while he’s out with Sherlock. Any slip up could cost him his job.

            Maddie nods her head and looks around the now vacant building. “Connie and me hid behind some boxes in this corner,” she says, walking over to the corner of the warehouse near a side entrance.

            “Stop moving!” Sherlock yells from the far side of the building, his deep voice echoing off the high ceiling, reverberating off the metal walls. “You’re compromising potential evidence!” He’s crouching over something on the floor, examining it with his pocket magnifying glass. He’s already pocketed a few pieces of paper, and scraped at some residue on the cement flooring with his pocketknife.

            Lestrade and Maddie stay perfectly still, and soon Sherlock is making his way towards them, though he seems to be stepping awkwardly, choosing each place where his foot falls carefully.

            When he reaches them, he turns to Maddie. “Where was Connie when they caught her?” he asks.

            Maddie points towards the large bay doors. “Near the door. It was open a couple-a feet. We was so close,” she finishes quietly.

            Sherlock carefully picks his way over to the large door, examining the floor the whole way. “Here,” he says, pointing to the floor near the door. “This is where they captured her.” He turns back toward the open space and follows tracks visible only to him to another spot. “And here’s where the put her in a van or lorry.”

            “So they didn’t kill her straight off?” Maddie asks, her voice small but hopeful.

            Sherlock glances up at her, eyes narrow and calculating. “It appears not,” he says a moment later.

            “What else have you found?” Lestrade asks, still rooted to the same spot he was in when Sherlock demanded he stop moving.

            “Not enough,” Sherlock half-answers, though he seems distracted. “According the absorption rate of the motor oil on the floor over there,” he says pointing to where he’d been crouched earlier, “I’d say the smugglers vacated these premises approximately twelve hours ago. Shoes prints would suggest three large males, as Maddie originally reported. Pressure outlines in the concrete floor, along with drag marks, indicate at least five crates, though whether any were stacked on those remains to be seen.” He turns to Lestrade and Maddie quickly, pulling a piece of thick paper from his pocket. “Is this the logo you saw on the crates?” he asks Maddie.

            “Yessir, Mr. Holmes,” she confirms.

            Sherlock nods, then begins walking towards the door. “Let’s go. I want to investigate the other warehouses in the area. The smugglers have obviously abandoned this building, but they might not have gone far.”

 

*

 

            John’s not entirely sure what he’ll say to get Denise Clark to stop and talk to him, but he knows it’s vital that he does. For all Mycroft’s pomp and ego, John doesn’t doubt how important it is that Denise be willing to tell him what she knows.

            So here he is, leaning against a stone wall under the arches on the northern end of Parliament, waiting for Denise to walk by. He’s trying to look inconspicuous, but it’s hard to pull off with crutches and one leg of his jeans split open nearly to his hip to accommodate his cast.

            Thankfully, he doesn’t have long to wait. He sees Denise Clark far down the arcade, but given her brisk pace, she’s soon nearing him.

            John pushes away from the wall and starts to thump towards the woman. “Ms. Clark,” he calls out timidly. The sound hits the walls and bounces back to him louder than he anticipated, but the woman doesn’t acknowledge him. John’s not sure if it’s because she didn’t hear him or if she’s ignoring him, so he tries again: “Ms. Clark,” a little louder.

            The woman looks up at him, then around her to see if he’s calling to someone else. He gives her a small smile and nods once when she gestures to herself, wordlessly asking if he’s speaking to her.

            “I’m Dr. Watson,” he introduces himself when he stops in front of her. “I met your mother about a month ago. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

            Ms. Clark glances around nervously, a confused expression twisting her face. “Th-thank you, Dr. Watson?” she says uncertainly. “What can I do for you?”

            “You have some information that someone I know needs very badly. Information that could be incredibly— _desperately_ —important,” he answers quietly, so she’s forced to duck her head closer to him to hear.

            “I-I’m not sure what you mean, Dr. Watson,” she says stepping back slightly. She pushes her thick-rimmed glasses back up her nose, then glances over each shoulder.

            John takes another step forward and leans in to whisper into her ear. “About your blackmailer.”

            Ms. Clark pulls back and gasps, then steps around John and starts to hurry away.

            John’s at a loss, not knowing what to do to stop her from leaving, but emphatically uncomfortable with playing his last card. But the woman is getting farther away, and he’s got nothing left. “I know about the pictures… _Denise_ ,” he calls to her. “I know what they could mean for your career.” He watches her freeze, and in that moment he hates what Mycroft has asked him to do. Hates the man he’s been forced to become. But John knows he’s made the right decision, though the guilt triggered by the complicated dichotomy of causing someone pain while doing what’s right will weigh heavily on him for a long time.

            Ms. Clark rushes back to him and whispers harshly into his face. “You think I care about my career at this point, _Doctor_ Watson?” she asks, surprising him. “They killed my mother. What do you think they’ll do to me?”

            John swallows audibly, then takes a gamble. “I know about…The Professor,” he says softly.

            Denise scoffs at him and leans back a few inches. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here."

            She turns to leave, and it’s then that John sees the bright red dot of a sniper’s laser scope on her back. In an instant, he drops his crutches and makes a grab for Denise. The bullets start flying as they dive behind a stone pillar.

            In the silence that inevitably follows the sound of bullets being fired—the one or two seconds before the screaming starts—he becomes aware of the pain and blood.

 

*

 

            Sherlock grunts and kicks at the dusty warehouse floor, the seventh they’ve investigated during a long afternoon with no new evidence to show for it. “Not _here_ ,” he yells. “There’s nothing here.”

            “And this is the last of them, yeah?” Lestrade asks. “You sure we didn’t miss one of them?”

            “Yes, Lestrade, I’m fairly certain I didn’t miss a _building_ ,” Sherlock assures the DI. “We’re wasting our time,” he concludes and starts walking towards the door. He pulls his mobile out of his pocket when he hears it ping.

           

_Dr. Watson taken to St. Mary’s. Condition unknown. Come at once. –MH_


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

 

            It’s all too familiar—achingly, bitterly familiar—this rush to get to the hospital, this boiling rage at the unknown, this gut-twisting fear that John is beyond hurt, that John is… _no_. No, he isn’t going to think about that, because _that_ isn’t even the remotest of possibilities. It isn’t possible, it isn’t tolerable, and it isn’t permissible. But the bone deep hatred of being forced, _again_ , to acknowledge John’s mortality, of being dragooned into recognizing the fragility of life, is pulsing through Sherlock so fiercely he’s virtually shaking with it.

            He slams his eyes shut and tries desperately to focus on the sirens Lestrade has turned on so that they might get to the hospital that much faster. He listens to the sirens and tries to determine their current location from the way they sound bouncing off buildings and trees and signs. It’s absurd, this little game, and he’s too intelligent to think it’s anything else, but he knows that if he doesn’t focus his attention on something other than the thought that John might be gone before he gets to the hospital, these emotions—these _feelings_ —that have been scorching through his veins, simmering just under his skin, might very well cause him to burst into flames. Another thought he realizes is absurd ( _spontaneous combustion is most assuredly improbable if not nigh on impossible_ ), but in the short time he’s opened himself up to emotion, he’s come to understand that it has very little to do with logic or rationality.

            Repeated texts and then phone calls to Mycroft for more information, an update, a bloody explanation, have gone unanswered, so the man is either feeling guilty or he’s in crisis mode, and as Mycroft Holmes is not a man to experience anything as pedestrian as guilt, Sherlock is certain he’s dealing with a situation—though this does not preclude Mycroft’s involvement in whatever it is that’s caused John’s newest need for a hospital. No, just because Mycroft doesn’t feel guilty doesn’t mean he has no reason to be.

            The eerie sense of déjà vu increases exponentially when they arrive at the hospital and Sherlock begins racing through hallways with Lestrade following closely behind. There’s a moment of surprise when Sherlock sees Maddie keeping pace with them, as he’s forgotten her presence entirely over the last several minutes.

            Sherlock, who never does anything by halves, very nearly collides with the nurses’ station when he finally reaches it. “Watson,” he says breathlessly. “Dr. John Watson. He was brought in,” he pauses to check the clock on the wall, “approximately half an hour ago.”

            A nurse with deep brown eyes and a ready smile, in spite of what has no doubt been a trying day, looks up at him. “Just give me a mo,” she says, then starts typing on her computer.

            Sherlock watches as she pokes at the keyboard, her movements stilted, slow—a farcical imitation of typing. He wants her to work faster. He wants to take her fingers and move them for her. He wants to take the bloody keyboard and do it himself. But he doesn’t, because John would think that’s rude, and what John thinks _matters_ , so until John doesn’t think anymore, Sherlock will do his best to take his thoughts into consideration. He will do his best to make John happy and proud.

            “There…we…are…” the nurse says slowly, looking at the screen, an expression of deep concentration ( _or concern?_ ) on her face. “Looks like he’s in room three, but—”

            After that he doesn’t hear anything else. He doesn’t hear her tell him to take a seat in the waiting room and that someone will be out to speak to him shortly; he doesn’t hear her tell him that he can’t go and see John because he’s not considered family; and he doesn’t hear Lestrade distract her long enough for Sherlock to slip through the doors with bright red signs declaring the space beyond is for “Authorized Personnel Only.”

            Sherlock puts his hand on the door with the plastic number “3” attached to it and takes a deep breath. He acknowledges that a part of him doesn’t want to go into the room—doesn’t want to face the potential reality on the other side. _It’s like Schrödinger’s Cat_ , he thinks: while still on this side of the door, John might be…dead, but the possibility that he’s alive is just as likely. And for a few moments the persistent hope that John is safe on the other side of the door is so much easier to deal with than knowing the truth.

            There’s no telling how long Sherlock would have stood there with his fingers wrapped around the door handle, weighing the pros and cons of opening the door, because just then the decision is quite literally taken out of his hands, as a very tired and yet, inexplicably, energetic Perseus pulls open the door and steps out. A look of shock crosses the young man’s face before a wide grin takes its place.

            “Mr. Holmes!” he says. “I was just going to call you!”

            Sherlock says something cruel—he can’t be bothered to remember what—before he pushes past Mycroft’s useless assistant into the room, and closes the door firmly behind him.

            John doesn’t look up when Sherlock enters. He is sitting on the bed, one leg up, the other dangling over the edge. He’s looking down at his hands, open in his lap and covered with dried blood. His clothing is in similar condition: the sleeve of one arm is ripped open from the shoulder past his elbow, his jeans are torn to reveal a scraped up knee, and his shirtfront and jeans are still slick with blood.

            Sherlock takes three quick steps to stand just in front of the other man, ghosts his hands along John’s body, not touching but wanting intensely to know, to _know_ , John’s pain—to experience it as plainly as John is at this very moment. He tries to swallow around the thickness in his throat; he wants to scream and wail and smash something into dust. He needs to say something, needs to find out what happened, why John left the flat, where John was when…whatever happened, happened. But when he opens his mouth all that comes out is something akin to a sob.

            It’s only then that John reacts. He doesn’t look up from his hands, but his shoulders sag and the whisper of a voice explains, “She died. And two others with her. They all died because I was there.”

            Sherlock reaches out then and puts his hands gently, _gently_ , on either side of John’s face, and lifts it until he can see John’s eyes. They’re wet with unshed tears and filled with such despair that something in Sherlock’s chest shatters.

            “Are you hurt?” he’s barely able to ask. His voice is rough and quiet.

            John shakes his head in Sherlock’s hands. “Not really,” he whispers. “Landed on my bad shoulder, but it’s fine.”

            “Please, _please_ don’t use that word,” Sherlock pleads, though he briefly allows himself to revel in the relief that John is safe and relatively unscathed. But as the adrenaline drains out of his system, the hands he has placed on John’s face begin to tremble.

            John sits up a little straighter, then places his own hands on Sherlock’s—both of them ignore the blood. “I’m all right,” he says, looking directly into Sherlock’s eyes.

            Sherlock lowers his forehead to John’s and nods once.

 

*

 

            The sun has long since set by the time John is released and they return to their flat. John ascends the stairs with some difficulty, aided again by Sherlock’s hand on the small of his back. They both feel this profound moment of déjà vu, but neither of them says anything about it.

            In fact, neither of them says much of anything for the first hour they’re home. The silence is only broken once when Sherlock offers to put together something for John to eat, but John declines with the shake of his head.

            They both sit on the sofa in the near dark of the sitting room, the dim light from a lamp in the corner casting their faces in stark, unflattering relief. Sherlock studies John’s face: the wrinkles old and new, the stubble on his cheeks, the oily sheen that predictably comes from a day of stress, anxiety, and heartache.

            John maintains a middle-distance stare for quite a while before he notices Sherlock looking at him. “Oh,” he intones quietly. Everything is quiet right now. Everything. “What happened to Greg and Maddie?” he asks, as if just remembering they were there in the hospital room with him at one point.

            “Lestrade’s finding her a place to stay until we know more about what’s going on,” Sherlock explains. At least that’s what he thinks Lestrade mentioned before he left, taking Maddie with him. The girl had spent the whole time looking at John as if he was a ghost apt to disappear in a puff of smoke or a beam of sunlight if she closed her eyes. Sherlock was sure he understood the feeling.

            “That’s nice,” John responds, already losing focus again. He’s dipped his head to look at his hands in his lap.

            Sherlock begins studying the top of John’s head, and wonders if John would sit still long enough to allow him count his hairs, then count the blond, then the grey separately.

            “Mycroft,” John says several minutes later, and Sherlock knows what he means.

            It’s the start of a strange, laboured kind of conversation. Like they need time to breath between each sentence, to interpret each word, to re-settle into a world where each pronouncement is a new truth.

            John clears his throat a few minutes later and continues. “Said he’s been dealing with a rash of blackmails and Denise Clark was the only one who might be willing to talk to him. He thought I could get her to talk to him. I had no idea I was putting her at risk.” His voice is still so soft, as if by saying anything at a normal volume will make it more true, and if it’s more true it will be more painful.

            “You were out, doing what you do, and I was out, trying to do what I do,” John says.

             And suddenly they’re having a different conversation and Sherlock feels the urgent need to participate. “And what’s that? Go running when Mycroft asks for help? Eagerly allow him to manipulate you? Wilfully enter into a dangerous situation in which he himself was so disinclined to take part?” His voice, too, is quiet, but he’s had a great deal of practice infusing every volume of his speech with anger or hostility.

             John finally looks up at him, hurt evident in his eyes. “You know that’s unfair,” he says. 

            “No, what I know is that, after all this time, Mycroft still sees you as a pawn in whatever game he’s involved in,” Sherlock says. “You’re _expendable_ to him, John. And every time he asks you to risk your life, you agree without any reluctance. “

            “I was reluctant,” John argues, but they both know that’s not the problem. The problem is that John will always say yes, whether he’s reluctant or not, if he thinks he can help.           

            “There are only two things I need in this world,” John begins trying to explain. “One of them is to be _useful_. To latch on to whatever part of the world I can, and lead it in the right direction. I need to feel like I’m doing something good and positive. And if that comes with some risk? Some element of danger? Than yes, I’m more than willing to accept those potential consequences.”

             “And what about me? What if I’m not ‘willing to accept those potential consequences’?” Sherlock asks, his voice cold and spiteful.

             The hands in John’s lap curl into tight fists—his right much looser due to the still healing bones. “Today, after you left, all I could think about were the thousands of ways you could get hurt or worse while you were out. It made me sick to think you were in danger and there was nothing I could do to stop it,” John pauses and breathes out forcefully. “So, when Mycroft offered me the chance to do some good, I took it. Because if something had happened to you today and I was just sitting around the flat in my pants drinking tea, I’m not sure I wouldn’t’ve eaten a bullet.”

             Sherlock closes his eyes, and his jaw aches from the way his muscles seize. They sit for a long time, letting the silence fill in around them again, both mired in their thoughts.

             After a while Sherlock asks, “What’s the other thing?”

             “What other thing?”

             Sherlock rolls his eyes before clarifying, “You said you need two things, but you only mentioned one.”

             Understanding blooms across John’s face. “Isn’t it obvious?” he asks. “You, Sherlock. I need you.”

             Sherlock doesn’t say anything for a long time. “I’m going to bed,” he finally decides.

             John, who had resumed staring at his hands, looks up at Sherlock as he rises from the sofa. “I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

             “No,” Sherlock says. “You won’t.” When he turns and walks up the stairs to John’s bedroom, John knows he’s not allowed to follow.

 

*

 

            When the nightmare comes that night, it’s different. There are ricocheting bullets sparking off of stone walls; red pinpoints of light from sniper scopes setting fire to everything they touch; and bodies surrounding him, piled in heaps in every direction. He has plenty of medical equipment but no one has lived long enough for him to help them. He stands there, up to his ankles in blood, and checks pulse point after pulse point, but there’s no thrum of life. The last body he checks, that of a tall, slender man with beautiful black curls offers him a single heartbeat before extinguishing. He’s too late and there’s nothing he can do.

            When he wakes up he doesn’t scream, but he does curl into the closest approximation of a ball as he can manage, and he lets the tears soak silently and unchecked into the pillowcase beneath his head.

            There’s a single miserable sob when he feels a familiar figure slip into the bed behind him. A deep voice whispers softly into his ear over and over again, “I’m sorry. I need you. I need you so much,” and soft lips press tender kisses onto the back of his neck, into his hair, behind his ear.

            He clutches one of the hands that’s wound its way around his waist, and before the tears have dried on his face he’s fallen back to sleep.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

 

            Sherlock has been asleep for less than an hour when _something_ ( _A noise? Fluctuation in air pressure? Temperature differential? A particularly interesting thought?_ ) causes him to wake up and find an empty spot in the bed where John is supposed to be ( _All of the above, then_ ). He’s ready to launch himself from the bed when he hears the tap in the bathroom turn on, and allows himself to lean back into the pillows, shut his eyes, and drift for a few minutes.

            Last night had been one of the toughest he’d endured in a long time—which is saying quite a lot considering how he’s spent the last few years of his life. Those nights he was away were made tolerable by imagining the safety and security in which John was living back in London. Back home.

            Now, with the full realization of what John’s life had been like, paired with the confusion and frustration of their current situation, Sherlock has no fantasy left to comfort him. He can’t delude himself into envisioning John carefully ensconced in their flat, a cup of tea and a spy novel on hand, a satisfied little smile on his lips.

            Yesterday he’d been forced again to confront their simple but harsh reality: They are in danger. Someone is out to harm them, and they can no longer afford to be complacent about this fact. He could say with relative certainty that he has never been more scared. And isn’t this why he’d forestalled interpersonal relationships to begin with? The potential for pain, disappointment, and heartbreak is undeniable.

            He’d sat upstairs last night, on the edge of John’s bed, for over two hours not knowing what to do. Not knowing how to handle the toxic feelings of anger and betrayal that blurred his vision, the electric frisson of fear that remained sparking on the edges of his heart. Sherlock had told John, he’d _told_ him that he was no good at this—this feeling business. And now he was overwhelmed and drowning in it.

            Sherlock couldn’t ask John what he was supposed to do when fear like he’d faced that day threatened to consume him. The man was being overrun with emotions of his own—Sherlock wouldn’t burden him with his, as well.

            Despite feeling enraged and deceived, Sherlock knew John wasn’t to blame for what happened. Mycroft should have known—should have _anticipated_ —the likelihood that Denise Clark was being watched, and he _still_ tossed John into a game for which he was in no condition to participate.

            Even recognizing this, Sherlock had sat in John’s room with the full knowledge that John was likely to have a nightmare that night. He had read it in the set of John’s shoulders, in the way his chin pressed towards his chest, the way his left hand trembled every so slightly, and the way the wrinkle between his eyebrows had gotten deeper as the hour had grown later, but Sherlock had been frozen where he sat, incapable of bowing to the desire to do what he could to stave off the imminent terror.

            Because sometimes he _was_ able to prevent John’s nightmares, or, at the very least, ease him out of them once they’ve started. He had learned what music was most effective at calming John long before his trip off of the roof of St. Bart’s; found out by accident late one night that the smell of iodine and nutmeg could often produce a similar affect. One particularly bad night, Sherlock had even slipped into John’s room and wrapped his hand lightly around the doctor’s ankle—whether the touch soothed him, or whether it had woken him up enough to jar him out of the nightmare, Sherlock couldn’t be sure, but the fact of the matter was that Sherlock knew how to handle John’s nightmares, and last night he’d done nothing. What kind of a man did that make him? If he could soothe John but refused to do so?

            Half an hour. That’s all. He’d lived with the fear that John was dead for half an hour and this was the result. Last night he’d felt as though his seams were coming unstitched. Like he was breaking apart, the little metaphorical bolts and washers that kept him together coming loose. He’d spent thirty-odd years creating a precise and deliberate wall—a barricade that prevented anyone from getting too close, and from him getting too close to anyone.

            He had discovered, shortly after that first kiss, that he’d gladly let John through to settle behind the wall with him. Unforgivably sentimental. Foolish. He’d ebulliently and prematurely assumed that he wouldn’t change anything: that this was precisely what he wanted out of life. He could retroactively accept the heartache and loneliness he’d experienced before his barrier against forming attachments had been fully functional, because it lead to this; it lead to John. And in spite of the potential future complications just such a relationship might entail, he was happy to face them, as long as he could face them with John. But what if John’s death was the complication ( _such an insufficient word_ ) that he was required to handle?

            Sherlock had groaned then with the recognition that he’d apparently inadvertently downloaded human history’s entire backlog of miserable rom-com plots and melodramatic dialogues on love and relationships. Downloaded it all, and was applying it liberally to his relationship with John.

            Having wrangled the most mutinous of his emotions into submission, Sherlock had then padded barefoot down the stairs from John’s room, avoiding the worst of the squeaky floorboards as best he could. He’d walked through the kitchen and listened for John through the door to his own bedroom. When he’d ascertained that the man was sleeping, he leaned against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor hugging his knees to his chest.           

            Sitting outside his own bedroom door, Sherlock had replayed John saying that he needed Sherlock, and how that admission had then filled him with the most intense warmth and tenderness for the other man. He’d never experienced such a feeling of contentment and completion, and it was _then_ that Sherlock also experienced the greatest wave of terror he’d ever known: Sherlock needed John just as much as John needed him, maybe more, and that he could lose this, this happiness he’d found, frightened him more than anything.

            But what kind of friend (much less what kind of _partner_ ) was he, sitting out there in the hallway while the man he loved and was so afraid of losing was no doubt on the verge of suffering through a vicious nightmare?

            The question had impelled Sherlock to push himself off the floor and slowly open the bedroom door. John’s eyes had been closed, but the light from the streetlamps outside had cast a soft yellow glow on John’s face, and made the tears glisten as they slid down his cheeks and soaked into his pillow. John’s hand had been clamped over his mouth and his was body shaking with the effort to stay quiet.

            When Sherlock realized that he was too late to prevent the nightmare, his stomach had cramped, and his heart had constricted. He was too late to prevent it, too late to curtail the worst of John’s pain. But he was there, and had offered whatever comfort he could, whatever comfort John had somehow taught him to give.

            Sherlock’s eyes open now, suddenly aware that he hasn’t heard any movement in the bathroom for quite a while, though the water is still running in the sink. It’s a minor anxiety—Sherlock is sure John is just lost in thought and not silently convulsing on the cold, tiled floor—but it’s one he can’t ignore, no matter how soft and warm and enveloping the bed is.

 

*

 

            The morning after a nightmare always leaves John feeling hollow and raw. The stillness that seemed so integral to survival yesterday remains, and he moves through the flat as if his thoughts—his guilt and heartache—are a burden, a physical weight. If he’d just reacted a split second faster Denise might not be dead now, the thought rolls through his mind on repeat. _Denise and two others_ , he reminds himself. Another woman and a man, but that’s as much as John knows about them. They were just part of the fluid rush of people ebbing and flowing through the heavy wooden parliamentary doors.

            It’s only after a soft knock on the door of the loo followed by a gruff “All right?” that John realizes he’s been standing in front of the sink, looking into the mirror with a toothbrush limp in his hands for several long minutes.

            “Yeah, I’m fi—I’m good,” he says. He quickly finishes his morning routine and opens the door to find a sleep rumpled Sherlock leaning against the wall outside the loo. His hair is sticking up at odd angles, and he seems to be having a very hard time keeping his eyes open.

            “Did you get much sleep last night at all?” John asks. His guilt extends its long fingers out, gathering Sherlock’s exhaustion and adding it to the multitude of sins for which John’s feels responsible.

            Sherlock’s head snaps up from where it had been lolling against the wall, and almost instantly his eyes are sharp and scanning John to ascertain his pain levels, his mental state, his potential physical needs.

            John’s familiar with this look. “I just took some paracetamol; other than a stiff shoulder and a bit of swelling in my knee, I’m feeling better than expected. Yesterday was…rough. But I’m managing. Could do with a nice cuppa, though, if you’re offering?” he says, a slight smile curving his lips.

            An answering smile crosses Sherlock’s face as he pushes away from the wall and heads to the kitchen, a slower John on his tail.

            John continues past the younger man and into the sitting room where he settles into the sofa and listens to Sherlock bang around in the kitchen.

            “Some toast, too?” Sherlock asks over the sound of water from the tap filling the kettle. “Where’s the toaster?”

            Sherlock’s making such a racket he doesn’t hear the distinct sound of metal tapping on wood; he doesn’t hear the door to the flat rattle when it opens; and he doesn’t hear the footsteps as they approach the sitting room. He _does_ hear a throat being cleared in a way that’s noticeable and irritatingly familiar.

            “Sherlock,” John says, his tone wary, when he sees the detective rush into the sitting room wielding a butter knife. “You cannot kill your brother with a butter knife.”

            Mycroft is standing in the doorway to the sitting room, leaning on his umbrella with one hand, holding a small parcel in his other, and looking rather timid. Well, timid for Mycroft, in any case. John can read it in the twitch of his eye and his dour expression.

            “Wrong,” Sherlock corrects him. “There are roughly eight…no, nine ways I can kill him with a butter knife.”

             John sighs, slumping his shoulders. “All right. You _may_ not kill Mycroft with a butter knife.”

            Sherlock’s takes a step closer to Mycroft and says through gritted teeth, “Well then, he’d better leave.”

            Mycroft looks over to John for some kind of help, but, if he’s being honest, John’s none too pleased about Mycroft’s impromptu visit, either.

            Sensing this, Mycroft steps into the sitting room only far enough to hand the package he’s holding over to John. “Mrs. Hudson asked that I bring this up,” he explains. “I was just dropping by to see how you were today, and to offer my assurance that we will find and punish whoever is responsible for yesterday’s attack.”

            “You’ll have to forgive me, Mycroft, if I don’t trust you or your team’s competence after yesterday’s major cock-up,” John says softly, though his words are harsh.

            Sherlock tosses the knife into John’s empty chair, then drops into his chair, folds his hands together over his crossed legs, and focuses a dark glare at his brother. “You’ve taken your disdain for legwork to a new low, Mycroft, asking a man just back from hospital to speak to a witness in your stead. That’s indolent, even for you.”

            Mycroft sighs heavily. There’s an element of resignation in his posture. “You don’t know the whole situation, Sherlock. You don’t know what’s been going on.”

            “Neither do you, apparently,” Sherlock shoots back.

            “We thought we were prepared for yesterday’s rendezvous. We had no indication anything was amiss, not until we heard gunshots.”

            “And where were you when John was getting shot at? Tucked away, I expect, in some secure location without even the hint of danger to worry you.”

            “Surely even you can recognize that my presence there would have most likely prevented the outcome we were hoping to achieve.”

            “I think we can all agree that your presence is rarely welcome,” Sherlock says waspishly.

            Mycroft looks down and taps his umbrella gently a few times on the floor. “I can see this isn’t going to be a productive visit,” he says to no one in particular. He glances up and nods at John. “Some other time, perhaps,” he says, then pivots and leaves, the door closing behind him with a soft thud.

            John watches Sherlock get up and go to the window, no doubt taking the opportunity to glare at Mycroft for as long as he’s visible, then to glare at his omnipresent black sedan as it disappears down Baker Street.

            “What’s in the box?” Sherlock asks without turning around.

            John lifts the little package and starts to peel back the tape seal before a thought occurs to him. “Wait a mo,” he says, his hands pausing in their task. “Isn’t today Sunday?” he asks.

            Sherlock turns and looks at him, confusion evident in his expression.

            “No post on Sundays, Sherlock,” he explains, as Sherlock has undoubtedly forgotten the conventions of mail delivery.

            This seems to grab the man’s attention, as he then leaves the window to sit on the sofa near John’s feet. “I suppose it could have come yesterday?” Sherlock wonders.

            John supposes that could be, but he’s fairly certain he saw Mrs. Hudson between the post being delivered and his departure with Mycroft. He gives a reluctant shrug and continues stripping away the tape sealing the box shut.

            When he sees what’s inside, John nearly throws the box across the room. The look on his face, paired with his dramatic gasp, has Sherlock grabbing for the parcel, prising it from John’s suddenly tight grasp.

            Sherlock lifts the flaps on the box and John watches the moment realization hits him—a dawning recognition washing over his face. The younger man looks up and catches John’s glance, his eyes wide and startled.

            “It’s…it’s an Easter egg,” Sherlock says, and as his disdain for stating the obvious is intimately known to nearly every person he’s ever met, that he says it is a testament to the shock he must be feeling.

            Before John knows what’s happening, Sherlock has set the box down on the coffee table and disappears into the kitchen, only to return a moment later with a pair of blue nitrile gloves. He pulls them on with a snap, then reaches into the package to retrieve the pink egg from its nest of tissue paper.

            John watches as Sherlock carefully separates the two halves of the egg and catches a slip of paper as it falls out of one of the halves. He reads it out loud:

            _It’s not often that anyone lives to hear me repeat myself._

_Count yourselves lucky._

_You won’t survive your next attack of curiosity. –The Professor_

            Who knows how long they sit on the sofa in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts. After a while, an idea blossoms in John’s head and it makes him nauseous and uneasy. It’s not impossible, it’s not even entirely improbable, but it is completely unnerving. If true, John knows they’re in a great deal more trouble than they originally imagined.

            He turns to Sherlock and starts to speak, “You don’t think—“ but stops when Sherlock meets his eyes and gives him a small but undeniable shake of his head. John’s not sure if Sherlock knows what he was about to say and doesn’t want to hear it, or if Sherlock needs more time to process. He receives an answer in the form of a biro and a piece of scratch paper.

            John glances up and gives Sherlock a questioning look. Sherlock’s only response is to incline his head in the direction of the paper now in John’s hand.

            _Could Mycroft be responsible for all of this?_ John writes in small, precise letters. He folds the paper in half and hands it over to Sherlock.

            Sherlock cups the paper in his hands, barely unfolding it in order to read what John’s written. When he does, he looks up at John, his eyes dark and heated. The slight nod of his head is enough to make John’s blood turn to ice in his veins. If it’s true, he knows there’s nowhere on earth remote or secure enough to protect them from whatever happens next.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

 

            John took Sherlock’s suggestion that they go out for lunch exactly as it was intended: an excuse to get out of the ( _potentially bugged?_ ) flat. He’d been eager to get to Angelo’s, where he could start asking his myriad questions, but now he doesn’t know where to start, and Sherlock isn’t exactly offering much in the way of conversation, either.

            He has no idea why he suggested it. No clue as to what made him believe Mycroft is responsible for the events of the last month. Sure, the older Holmes brother can be considered threatening, and he certainly oversteps his bounds in ways that remain shocking to John even after years of knowing him, but for all Mycroft’s authority and influence, he’s never seemed evil or sinister.

            There’s something about these last few weeks, though, that seems familiar in an altogether disconcerting way. The kidnapping, the threats, the seemingly needless pain of it; it feels like a crime scene covered with the fingerprints of a criminal who doesn’t care if he’s caught. And John only knows three people with that kind of arrogance: one died on the roof of St. Bart’s, one is sitting in front of him and staring out of the window, and one plays a ‘minor’ role in the British government.

            “It’s not outside the realm of possibility,” Sherlock finally says without preamble a few minutes after Angelo delivers their meals and leaves them to eat in peace.

            John, surprised by the sudden entrance into a conversation they’ve both been contemplating but saying nothing about, swallows a mouthful of pasta before huffing out an unconvincing laugh. “Yeah, but…it’s Mycroft.”

            Sherlock gives him a hard look. “Precisely.”

            John sets his fork down and folds his hands together on the table. “I think we need to slow down here, Sherlock,” he says evenly. Calmly. “I mean, isn’t this taking your rivalry a little far? You really think he’s capable of all this?”

            Sherlock turns back towards the window before speaking. “He certainly isn’t _incapable_ of it, John.”

            “But…but…I was _tortured_ ,” John leans in and whispers fiercely, quickly prompting Sherlock to look back at him. “I was left _alone_ in a pitch black room for a _week_ with no food and barely any water!” His tone is low and voice hushed, but the anger and suppressed fear behind the words is unmistakeable. “And when I was dragged out of that black hell I was systematically brutalized. And you’re telling me you think your brother did that?”

            “No, but his minions could have. And isn’t it convenient you were delivered to a hospital before any permanent damage was done?”

            John gives Sherlock a look meant to convey how little he appreciates his injuries being trivialized.

Sherlock, being who he is, translates it immediately, but Sherlock, being who he is, just rolls his eyes. “If you didn’t think it was him, what made you suggest it in the first place?” Sherlock asks.

            “I was hoping you’d tell me I was being an idiot! Then tell me all of the reasons why it can’t be him. That’s how this works—remember? I come up with the shite ideas so you can come up with the right one.” John’s trying to remain calm, he really is, but Sherlock was supposed to disagree with him. Sherlock was supposed to tell him to stop impersonating Anderson. He never expected the detective to defend his brother, but surely there had to be another—more _rational_ —explanation for what appears to be Mycroft’s involvement in the events of the last month. _Right_?

            Over time John has learned to hate when Sherlock agrees with him, and this is exactly why. Because when Sherlock agrees with him—“We’re fucked, aren’t we?” John asks.

            “It would seem that way,” Sherlock responds quietly. “He is, after all, the only one who I kept apprised of my movement over the last few years. He has enough information on the USB drive that was removed from your stomach to lock me away for the rest of my life—if not have me put to death.”

             “He’s already tried to have me killed in broad daylight in front of bloody Parliament.” John leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “And, from the looks of things, he’s blackmailing MPs from here to Aberdeen for god knows why.” John scrubs his hands over his face. “Sherlock, what’s he doing?”

            “I’m not sure, yet. What I do know is that we need to disappear for a while.”

            “You think there’s anywhere we can go where he can’t fi—“ John asks, before being interrupted by a suddenly present Angelo.

            “How is everything, then?” the older man asks when he approaches the table. They nod and offer vague compliments about the food, though neither of them have really eaten much. 

            “Guess you won’t be leaving those behind, yeah?” Angelo says, nodding in the direction of John’s crutches.

            John shakes his head, a physical attempt at clearing his cluttered thoughts. “Hm? Oh, those. Yeah. Probably need them for a little while, yet,” he says, then attempts a smile. From the way Angelo’s falters on his face, John surmises he isn’t very successful. A look over at Sherlock’s face where it’s staring out the window  confirms that his expression could never pass for cheerful, either.

            “You two all right?” Angelo asks, placing a hand on each of their shoulders, causing Sherlock to turn a dark look on him. “You seem upset. No trouble in paradise, I hope.”

            “We’re fine, Angelo,” John reassures the man. “My phone’s just run out of charge, though, and this git,” he says, pointing his thumb in Sherlock’s direction, “left his at home. You think I might borrow yours for a few minutes?”

            “Oh, sure! No problem,” Angelo says, reaching into his pockets. “You go ahead. I’ll come pick it up once you’re done,” he says, then walks away towards the kitchen.

            “You’re getting better at lying,” Sherlock says, his eyes narrowing in order to read the doctor better. The corner of his mouth quirks up, which is as close to a “well done” as John usually gets.

            John taps a few numbers into the phone, then looks at Sherlock, mirroring his expression. “Hey, Greg,” John greets the DI when he answers his phone a few moments later.

            “John! How are ya, mate?” Greg asks. John hears the muted rumbling of conversation in the background, the shrill of ringing phones, then a door close, taking with it most of the background interference.

            “I’m fine. Just fine. You in your office?” John asks. He picks at the food left on his plate, not bothering to look at Sherlock’s ‘ _obviously, John_ ,’ face, but knowing it’s there all the same.

            “Usually am, aren’t I?” Greg responds, chuckling softly. “What’s up?”

            “Look,” John says with a sigh. He sets down his fork and risks a glance up at the detective. “Sherlock and me? We sure could use some help right about now.”

            “Christ, John. What’s happened now?” Greg asks, sounding genuinely concerned—not inconvenienced, as John had feared.

            “I can’t really go into it right now, but I need a few things from the flat. Think you might be able to go in and pretend to wait around for us for a bit? Grab some stuff while you’re there, then get out without too much of a fuss?”

            “’Course, mate. I’ll leave straight away. What’d ya need?”

            “My rucksack from the wardrobe upstairs. Just grab that and the medical kit under the sink in the loo,” John says.

            Sherlock waves a hand in his face to get his attention. “I’ve got a bag, too. Under the foot of my bed,” he informs John, then quickly adds: “ _Not_ the blue one. The black one.”

            “The black bag under the foot of Sherlock’s bed, too, if you could,” John translates to the DI.

            “No problem. You want to pick it up here at the station?”

            “No, we’d better steer clear of there for now. Sherlock’ll meet you on the ground floor of the Lawn in Paddington at—” John checks his watch quickly. “Say half four? Don’t worry about finding him—he’ll find you.”

            “Sure thing. Anything else?” Lestrade asks.

            “Yeah, don’t tell anyone we’ve talked or that you know where we are. No one. Not even Mycroft.”

            “Hey, John—” Greg starts to say, but John interrupts when he notices Angelo making his way back towards them.

            “Greg, I have to go. Just…half four at the Lawn, okay?” John says then ends the call.

            “All set, then?” Angelo asks when he returns to their table.

            “Yeah, mate. Cheers,” John says, handing the mobile back to him. “In fact, I think we’re just about done. Thanks for another incredible meal, Angelo,” John says, offering him a big smile. He’s still not anywhere near at ease, but having started a plan of action has calmed him some.

            Angelo reiterates his assurance that they’re always welcome. When John slides the crutches under his arms the older man nods at him with encouragement. “You’ll forget ‘em here soon enough,” he says, then turns back to his other customers.

            “Now we just need to find a place for me to lie low while you meet up with Lestrade,” John says as they leave the restaurant.

            “You’re not coming with me?” Sherlock asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken in several long minutes. John wonders what he’s been thinking, and if he can get the detective to tell him at some point.

            They move towards the outer edge of the pavement and wait for an empty cab to pass. “Can’t exactly blend in or make a swift exit with these things,” John says indicating his crutches.

            “No, I suppose not,” Sherlock agrees quietly, as if distracted by whatever else he’s considering. He perks up, “Ah!” he exclaims. “I know someone who can help. And she owes me a favour. Come along, John,” he says, flagging down a cab.

           

            Half an hour later, as they roll down a street lined with posh terrace house in South Kensington, John can’t ignore the feeling they’ve been here before. Then the memory hits him like a powerful wave with a rogue riptide. “Is this…” he starts looking at the bright white brick façade. “Are we…” he says looking back at Sherlock. “I thought she…is she?”

            “Not your most successful attempt at communication, John. Fortunately, I speak ‘shocked stupid’. Yes, this is Ms. Adler’s home, and yes she’s alive. But no she is not here at the moment. Last I heard she was making quite a _new_ name for herself in New York.” He opens the door of the cab, then peers over his shoulder to add: “Her assistant, however, is here.”

            John exits the cab with not a little trepidation. “Surely there are other places we can go,” he says.

            Sherlock sighs heavily and turns back around to face John. “Of course there are, but I’d rather not take you to some seedy hotel with questionable standards of cleanliness. At least here I know what the security is like. Mycroft still hasn’t been able to touch its system, and this area happens to be a CCTV dead zone.” He straightens his shoulders and looks down imperiously at John. “Besides, Ms. Adler owes me quite a large favour, and I intend to make sure she pays.” He strides up to the door and knocks confidently.

 

*

 

            _It really is the best solution_ , Sherlock thinks as he walks through the house, cataloguing its security systems, checking for points of egress, verifying their safety. At some point, Kate, Irene’s assistant, had updated some the structures to include integrated vibration and audio sensors, a ventilation system designed to detect and flush biochemical weapons from a floor in less than twenty seconds, and concealed panic rooms on the first and third floors, the construction of which is still plainly evident by the sawdust visible on the floor, and the workman’s ladder by the back door.

            “When do you expect her back?” Sherlock asks when he joins John and Kate in the reception room, disrupting what is painfully awkward silence.

            “Mistress is quite content where she is, Mr. Holmes. I don’t know when or _if_ she will return.”

            “I can still smell the paint, Ms. Halstead, and you’re no target.” Sherlock sighs deeply, but chooses not to belabour the point. “I trust Irene has told you what you’re to do if I come around.”

            “Yes, sir. And what is it that I can do for you?” Kate folds her hands together in front of her.

            “John and I need to stay here for a bit. The room upstairs overlooking the garden will do nicely.”

            Sherlock watches as the young woman tenses, a response so very counter to her verbal “Very good, sir,” response.

            “We’ll take the lift,” Sherlock says, placing his hand on the small of John’s back in order to direct him to the small lift in the entrance hall.

            A few minutes later and they’re in a quiet, well-appointed bedroom in the back of the house, the windows of which look down on a lush green garden behind the house.

            Sherlock stands in front of the window, hands clasped behind his back. He’s still struggling to understand how he’s failed so miserably at recognizing Mycroft’s change in behaviour since his own return. He’s angry that he missed the signs, frustrated that he could have prevented so much of John’s pain if only he’d seen the transformation in Mycroft before he got to the doctor.

            John comes up behind him, leans a crutch against the wall, and presses his forehead into Sherlock’s back. His breath warms the skin between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, and the heat of his hand on Sherlock’s arm spreads through him like fire. “I’m sorry,” John whispers into the back of his neck, the roll of breath against his skin there sending shudders through him.

            Sherlock clears his throat, then says, “There’s a pergola,” he says pointing out the window. “It’s sturdy enough to hold us should we need to use the window as an escape.”

            John nods against his back, then runs his hand up and down Sherlock’s arm before pulling away. “You’d better get going,” he says, reclaiming his crutch. “If you leave now you can stop in the Boots on the Lawn, too. Pick up some toothbrushes and toothpaste, soap and shampoo. Things of that nature.”

            Sherlock turns and sees the unconcealed look of worry in John’s eyes. “You should try and get some rest while I’m gone,” Sherlock suggests.

            John ushers a harsh laugh and turns to cross the room. “Not bloody likely,” he shoots over his shoulder.

            Sherlock closes the gap John’s put between them. He rounds John to look straight into his face. “I’ll be back soon,” he promises, then leans in and kisses him.

            John deepens the kiss, imbuing it unintentionally with the desperation and fear he’s trying to frantically to hide from Sherlock’s preternatural notice. “Just come back quickly,” he says, pushing Sherlock away gently a few moments later. “Don’t dawdle, or stop; don’t pop in anywhere for ‘just a second’; don’t get distracted, and don’t meander. Just stop at the chemist’s, meet up with Greg, and come back.”

            “Yes, sir,” Sherlock says, the corner of his mouth turning up ever so slightly. He nods and starts to leave, but turns back to John when he gets to the door. “At least get your leg up?”

            “Yes, sir,” John responds.

 

*

 

            “Any news on the shooting?” Sherlock asks as he comes up silently behind Lestrade. The DI jumps comically, then turns to give Sherlock a angry scowl.

            “Bloody hell, man. You trying to give me a coronary?” he asks, his voice low and rough. He drops the bags he’s had slung over his shoulders at his feet. Sherlock sets a bag from the chemist’s down next to them.           

            The arcade around them is choking with people; business women and men in suits rumpled after a long day at work, carry soft leather attaché cases full of meaningless paperwork; harried mothers push brightly patterned pushchairs, drag older siblings along behind with the promise of sweets or ice cream if they promise to be good; scarcely-clothed teenagers released from school for the day cluster around benches and tables, lost somewhere in their mobile screens and gossip about their classmates. Sherlock feels so removed from it, but he also can’t help but feel trapped and breathless.

            “What’s going on, Sherlock?” Lestrade asks after noting the restlessness in Sherlock’s expression. He leans back against the glass and metal railing behind him and crosses his arms over his chest.

            The detective sighs, shoves his hands deep into his pockets, and casts his eyes over the crowd amassed around them. “I really can’t tell you without putting you at even greater risk,” he says.

            Lestrade just nods, resigned to being out of the loop once again. “You’ve got John, though, right? No plans on leaving him behind?”

            Sherlock closes his eyes ever so briefly before looking at the DI. “No plans on leaving John ever again,” he says.

            The bare affection in the younger man’s voice startles Lestrade. “Good. That’s good,” he stammers. He clears his throat before changing the subject. “SOCA’s got the shooting, by the way, it being on government property and all. Haven’t heard much about it other than they’re having a bloody difficult time finding any evidence. Already have ballistics back on the bullets, though, apparently. You might be surprised to learn they’re a match for the ones used to kill that guy up in Norwich. The one from John’s case?”

            “But he would have been shot with a handgun,” Sherlock says, and already the wheels of inquiry are whirring in his brain. “Do you know how challenging a long range shot like that would be?”

            “Got a good idea,” Lestrade answers. “And speaking of ballistics, I got some bad news earlier today. They fished a body out of the river that matched the kid’s description of that missing woman we were looking for down at the warehouses. Maddie ID’d her this morning. Coroner said she’s been dead around seventy-two hours.”

            “That means they killed her right after she was abducted from the warehouse,” Sherlock says after tallying the hours in his head. “We had no chance of finding her alive. What killed her?” he asked.

            “She was shot. Didn’t find any water in her lungs, so she was dead before she hit the water. That’s what I meant about ballistics. The bullet’s there now.”

            “The people Maddie’s with—they know she might be in danger?”

            “There’s a problem with that,” Lestrade says. He scrubs his hands over his face, then through his closely cropped silvering hair. “Maddie never made it back from the morgue after IDing Connie.”

            Sherlock turns and glares at the older man, “You let a fourteen-year-old girl leave the morgue alone?” he asks.

            “No, she was there with her children’s services rep,” the DI explains. “They left, and the rep was supposed to take her back to the foster home, but she never got there.”

            Sherlock is quiet for a few minutes. It isn’t like he had formed any sort of attachment to the girl. The puzzle, though, is sitting there waiting for him, and he isn’t in a position to take it on. “I’ve got to get back to John,” he says, reaching for the bags at Lestrade’s feet. They’re heavier than he expects. He pulls back the zip on his black duffel and shoves the Boots bag into it roughly.

            Lestrade stops him from walking away with a hand on his arm. “What about Maddie?” the DI asks.

            Sherlock looks up from the hand on his arm and into Lestrade’s face. _He looks tired_ , Sherlock thinks, and for the first time wishes he could do more to help. “Someone will probably fish her out of the Thames soon enough,” Sherlock says. He extracts his arm from Lestrade’s grasp, then allows the sea of people to swallow him whole.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

 

            If John were to make a list of the top five worst things about being in a hip-to-toe cast, not being able to expend nervous energy by pacing or taking a walk would be on it. Right after how time-consuming showers now are. And not being able to wear trousers properly. And not being able to climb stairs without a lot of hassle. And the distinct lack of manoeuvrability in…intimate settings. And, well, the pain of a broken leg.

            Okay. So it’d definitely be in the top ten.

            But it’s the one he’s most frustrated by at the moment.

            John felt a predictable wave of fear roll over him as he watched Sherlock walk out that door, but he was also filled with a surprise surge of _longing_. There was an element of familiarity to this situation that comforted John in an unexpected way; as though something had settled back into place—something he hadn’t known was really out of place. He’d been waiting for it to happen, without really knowing what that _it_ was. The mystery, adrenalin, danger—it’s a reassuring indicator that Sherlock is well and truly home, and that they’ve recaptured some part of their past life together.

            John looks at the clock on the bedside table for what feels like the hundredth time since Sherlock left over an hour ago, at once frustrated by how slowly time is moving and surprised he hasn’t yet said _fuck it_ and limped out of the house to go after him. He wishes they still had their mobiles; wishes that the GPS on their phones, along with Mycroft’s incessant need to keep tabs on them hadn’t necessitated them leaving the phones behind at Angelo’s. Because now they are without the option to communicate with one another, and not being able to check in on Sherlock is only adding to John’s anxiety.

            But, at the moment, no matter how much John longs for it, he can’t follow Sherlock. He can’t supply the detective with the protection that he needs and John is so called to provide. He and his broken leg are a danger and a disadvantage. He can’t follow Sherlock because he’d never be able to keep up.

            The words from his nightmare are ever-present in his mind, and their truth now sets John’s nerves on edge. “ _What use are to you me if you can’t keep up?”_ his memory supplies him with the reminder on repeat. Is he putting Sherlock at increased risk because of his injuries? Will there come a time when his limitations hurt Sherlock? Is John, even now, holding Sherlock back from figuring out a solution to their problem; holding Sherlock back from preventing whatever Mycroft has planned?

            The idea that Mycroft is planning _anything_ still sits uneasily with John. Part of him still doubts that Mycroft is responsible for what’s happened over the last month, despite what the overwhelming amount of evidence suggests. But John’s not sure if he still has doubts because he truly doesn’t believe Mycroft capable of such dark conduct, or if it’s because he doesn’t _want_ Mycroft to be capable, and not just because the man is so enormously influential. John’s heart hurts when he thinks of how Sherlock must be handling all of this. The man knows so few people, and trusts even fewer. Mycroft’s disseminating crucial information about Sherlock to Moriarty had been betrayal enough, but this?  Sherlock is so quick to believe the worst of people, and this only proves his point further.

 

             When Sherlock finally returns over two and a half hours after leaving, John is feeling decidedly less than optimistic about their situation. He’s thrilled to see the detective, but after spending so long inside his head, struggling with persistent, negative, and disturbing thoughts, it’s hard to surface for more than a mumbled greeting.

             Sherlock gives him a calculating look as he hands John’s rucksack over to him, then sets his own duffle bag down on the expansive king sized bed.

             The worn British Army Bergen John pulls from Sherlock’s grasp is heavy, but he’s comforted by its weight. He’d started keeping various supplies in it soon after moving in with Sherlock, confident that they’d need to bug out quickly at some point, whether from an overly enthusiastic enemy’s threats or an overly enthusiastic Sherlock’s experiments, John didn’t know.

              After Sherlock left, John kept it packed in the unlikely event Sherlock ever broke his self-imposed radio silence and called on him for help.

              He’s grateful for his forethought now as he begins unpacking each of the bag’s many pockets and pouches. From the main section he pulls out a few changes of clothing: practical, comfortable clothes that resist wrinkling and can easily help him blend into a crowd. He lays each set of clothes in a separate pile on the bed, re-folding everything as it’s tugged from the Bergen.

              “How’d it go?” John asks as he next pulls a spare pair of sensible shoes, rubber soled with good tread, from the bag.

              “No problems,” Sherlock answers. He’s set his own bag aside in favour of watching John unpack. “I’m confident I wasn’t followed. Lestrade’s curious.”

              “I don’t doubt that,” John says. Under the shoes is a metal tin with two boxes of extra bullets and a spare gun care kit. After seeing his sidearm still in the cutlery drawer the day before, John had taken it into the loo with him when he went in to shower, and inexplicably—and thankfully—hidden it in the medical kit below the sink. _Christ, that was only yesterday_ , he thinks. _So bloody much has happened over the last twenty-four hours._ John unhooks the medical kit, attached by its handle to a karabiner on the front of the rucksack, and sets aside.

            Sherlock sits down on the other side of the bed, his back against the upholstered headboard, his hands steepled under his chin. “The woman Maddie was looking for was found dead this morning,” he says. “Killed almost as soon as she was abducted.”

            “Christ. How’s Maddie?” John looks up to see Sherlock carefully studying him.

            “How consistently blind I am in regards to you, John,” the younger man says, ignoring John while surveying the growing number of increasingly useful items. “I always underestimate you.”

            John, surprised by the admission, assesses the stuff, too, and tries to see it from Sherlock’s perspective. It’s mostly things he would have carried with him during the war. Clothes and shoes are always practical. A torch and medical supplies are the emergency items he seems to always be reaching for, so they make sense, too. His gun? If he didn’t have it, he’d constantly be reaching for it. At this point it’s as much a comfort for him to have it as much as it is a security measure. He’s got his knife, too: a four-inch stainless steel blade with an African Blackwood bolster and a thuya burl handle. He’d picked up in an open-air market in Marrakesh on leave a few years after joining the Army. He had packed it in the bag partly for sentimental reasons—that trip was the last time he’d seen his mate, Danny Macmillan. He’d died a few months later when a roadside bomb exploded under the vehicle he’d been riding in.

             It was also just really handy to have a knife around.

            “Well, if you can’t be smart, be prepared, right?” John says, shrugging slowly. He unzips another side pouch and plucks three mobiles along with their chargers from within.

            “Don’t ever permit me to call you stupid again,” Sherlock says from the other side of the bed. He reaches forward and grabs a phone from John’s hands.

            “Burners,” John explains efficiently. “No history on them; no way to trace them back to me. I had them on hand for cases, but never used these.” He lays the two remaining phones side by side on the duvet, then continues unpacking.

            When everything is out of the Bergen, John accesses its interior structure where the metal frame is housed, and draws out a thick envelope. John sets the bag, now utterly depleted of its contents, on the floor.

            “How’s Maddie holding up?” John asks. He opens the envelope and withdraws a thick stack of cash.

            “John, what is all of this?” Sherlock asks. “Why do you have all of that money?”

            John looks up and stares Sherlock directly in the eye. “Why are you avoiding my question?” he asks. He watches Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bob as the detective swallows; watches him lick his lips, then narrow his eyes. John recognizes his apprehension, but he’s not sure if it’s because of the over four thousand pounds John’s holding, or because Sherlock doesn’t want to tell John what’s going on with Maddie. John sighs. “Fine; cash points are inconvenient and only allow you to withdraw so much. I kept this around in case I needed to convince someone to give me information. Or in case you called and needed me. Now it’s your turn. What. Happened. With. Maddie.”

            Sherlock nods almost imperceptibly. “She’s been abducted, too,” he says quietly, looking down at his lap and fiddling with the mobile he liberated from John only moments before.

            John swears softly, then shoves some of the clothing on the bed out of the way so he can shuffle over and sit next to Sherlock against the headboard. “What else did Greg say?”

            “Nothing more about Maddie. They don’t know much else. Just that she and her children’s services representative were taken after they left the morgue this morning. They don’t have much to go on.”

            John reaches over and covers one of Sherlock’s hands with one of his own. He knows by now that asking the detective if he’s all right is a lesson in futility; Sherlock is loathe to acknowledge his emotions, though it seems, at least when they relate to John, he’s getting better. This will not be one of those surprisingly open times, though, so John doesn’t ask.

            Sherlock turns his hand over so their palms touch, then threads his fingers loosely through John’s. “He also told me that the shooting at Parliament is connected to your blackmailer in Norwich.”

            John, who had been watching their fingers weave around one another, looks up from at Sherlock with surprise evident in his expression. “In what way?” he asks.

            “The same gun was used,” Sherlock answers frankly.

            John’s look of surprise—eyebrows high on his forehead, eyes wide and bright—shifts quickly into one of confusion. “But that doesn’t make any sense.”

            Sherlock continues to study their hands as he says, “That’s what I said. The skill a long-range shot like that would take…”

            “You don’t understand, Sherlock. There’s no good line of sight from any of the buildings directly adjacent to that end of Parliament, the stone walls and arches make a clear shot from any of the closest buildings nearly impossible. Even a long-range shot from farther away is an intimidating challenge. And no one would try a long-range shot with a pistol. Not from the distance the shooter would have been at.” John explains all of this with a building sense of dread coiling in his gut.

            It’s Sherlock’s turn to look up from their hands. “You did,” he says. “You tried a long-range shot with a pistol. You shot the cabbie from another building. Through two windows.”

            “Yeah, but I was desperate and unprepared. And I was much closer than yesterday’s shooter could have been. Whoever planned this was prepared for it. And no one would have planned to have a sniper with a handgun and chanced a missed shot.”

            “You’re right. The shooter must have been close by,” Sherlock says.

             John watches the telltale signs of Sherlock entering into data analysis mode: the middle distance stare, the unfocused gaze, the darting eye movements, and the absolute stillness of the rest of his body. “Exactly,” John says, trying to maintain at least part of Sherlock’s attention. “The laser scope must have been a red herring to keep the authorities from looking too closely at the security footage that captured the crowd.”

             A pained noise escapes Sherlock’s mouth. “We need to get that footage,” he says, nearly leaping from the bed.

            “Sherlock, wait,” John says, reaching out and grabbing the edge of the detective’s black suit coat. “If he was close by, that means he wasn’t shooting at random. I don’t know if I was spared or if I got lucky, but I’m fairly certain that the other three people who died were definitely targets. Sherlock, we have to find out more about the other two victims.”

            “You know what this means, John?” Sherlock asks, his eyes bright with anticipation. “It means he’s made his mistake.” Sherlock finally launches himself off the bed and heads towards the bedroom door. “Call Lestrade and find out what you can about the other two victims. Their names haven’t been released to the press yet, but he should know, or he knows someone who knows.”

             John shifts towards the edge of the bed and lowers his legs. “Where are you going?” he asks, barely keeping his rising anxiety in check. He knows this is the point where Sherlock usually swans off and leaves John to catch up. But John won’t be able to catch up if Sherlock goes running off now.

             Miraculously, Sherlock stops his rapid egress from the room long enough to recognize John’s heightened agitation. “I’ll be back in a moment. I’m just going to borrow Ms. Halstead's laptop,” he explains, then rushes out the door.

            “Ask her before you take it,” John yells after him. He picks up one of the mobiles on the bed next to him and powers it on.

            “Lestrade,” the DI answers gruffly after the phone connects few moments later.

            “Greg, it’s John. Sherlock and I may be getting somewhere, but I need another favour, mate.”

            “Christ, John,” Lestrade says quickly. “I’m glad you called. I’ve been trying to figure out how to get in touch with you or Sherlock for the past hour.”

            “What’s happened?” John asks.

            “Ballistics came back on Connie’s murder,” Lestrade says, a little breathlessly. “Fuck, John. It’s all the same gun. It’s the same gun as Norwich and Parliament.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With many thanks to Moonblossom, who designed some awesome cover art for this story this week!


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

 

            When Sherlock gets back to the room, laptop under his arm, John is just finishing up his conversation with Lestrade. The older man is pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger and the stress lines in his forehead are on prominent display.

            Sherlock settles onto the bed, his back against the headboard, and opens the laptop on his legs. “Well?” he says when John concludes his phone call by tossing the mobile on the bed.

            “Lestrade’s just full of interesting information today,” John offers. “Connie was murdered with the same gun.”

            Sherlock moves in a flurry of energy—dumping the computer off his lap, he goes from sitting on the bed, legs crossed at the ankles, to pacing around the room in one fluid motion. “But that doesn’t make any _sense_ ,” he says for the second time that day, and _really, it’s getting quite annoying_. He turns to John, who’s sitting in a plush chair by the window, and pins him with a look. “What’s the connection?” he asks. “The other two victims—did Lestrade have their names?”

            “Yeah: Kiraz Senturk-Oyal and a Peter Shipley,” John answers quickly, the notebook in which he’s written the names sitting in his lap.

            “What do we know about them?” Sherlock asks.

            Sherlock continues pacing as John moves from the armchair to the bed where he picks up the abandoned laptop and navigates to the appropriate websites. “Senturk-Oyal, 42, held a position in the Foreign and Commonwealth Office as a special liaison between the office and the Foreign Affairs Committee. Shipley was chair of the European Scrutiny Committee. He was 61.”

            Sherlock moves around the room, hands on hips, all restless energy and awakening brain synapses. “What does the Met have on them? Any arrests? ASBOs?” He continues his measured pacing while John taps at the laptop keyboard.

            “Shipley had a few parking tickets, one speeding ticket. Other than that, he’s clean.” A few keystrokes later, John continues by ushering a confused hum. “I can’t find anything on Senturk-Oyal. Just her name and a note saying to phone the number on the page.”

            Sherlock spins around and looks at John with narrowed eyes. “What’s the number?” he asks.

            John starts reading it to him, but Sherlock stops him half way. “Ah, a diplomat, then.” Sherlock says. “Her information wouldn’t be kept on their system,” he answers John’s silent question. “Kiraz. That’s Turkish; means ‘cherry’. Senturk—literally translates to ‘happy Turk.’”

           Sherlock spends a few moments committing this new information to memory, then turns to John and asks, “What do we know about Denise Clark? And don’t bother trying to maintain her secret anymore. It might be important to know.”

            John sighs and sits back against the headboard. He knows Ms. Clark’s information without having to look it up. “Denise Clark was 38, she…” John hesitates for a moment before continuing. When Sherlock levels him with an impatient glare, he carries on, but not without returning a scowl of his own. “She successfully underwent male-to-female gender reassignment surgery a little over a decade ago. She was recently elected as the Member for Norwich South, and was appointed to the Foreign Affairs Committee.”

            “A Turkish diplomat, the chair of a committee devoted to the UK’s relationship with the European Union, and a member of the committee responsible for examining the actions of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office…” Sherlock trails off, mentally shifting pieces of the puzzle around in his head to see where their jagged edges fit flush against one another. The speed of his pacing accelerates the closer he comes to some sought after insight.

 _There’s obviously a connection_ , he thinks, _but what is it_? _And what’s the connection between them and the guns at the warehouse_? He runs through what he knows about the Middle East, the UK’s relationship with the countries there, and what he knows about the ongoing military presence throughout the region.

            After spending who knows how long deep in his head, Sherlock comes to the realization that he doesn’t know enough. He needs more data.

            Sherlock addresses the doctor, who’s been nodding off in his seat on the bed. “John,” he says sharply, causing the older man to jump. “Go to Parliament’s website and find the list of bills coming up for vote—concentrate on those scheduled for the next few weeks. Look for bills that focus on foreign policy in the Middle East.”

            Several long minutes later, John clears his throat and begins listing off bills that fit Sherlock’s requirements. “There’s one to increase defence spending in Afghanistan, another one that would give foreign nationals access to public services…here’s one regarding the UK’s support of Turkey’s accession into the EU, and another that would send aid to Iraq…”

            “Wait!” Sherlock yells. “Go back—the one about Turkey. Of course! That makes perfect sense!”

            “Well, I’m glad it does to one of us. Care to explain?”

            “What? Oh, right. Turkey’s accession into the European Union. It would be an immense boon to the country, to be sure, but it would also make trade significantly less difficult. Turkey would become an increasingly vital trading partner—not just for imports, but _exports_ , as well!”

            “And why is that important?”

            Sherlock looks at John, surprised that he hasn’t yet made the connection. “That’s how the gun smuggling fits in. Turkey borders Iran, Iraq, and Syria. Even Georgia! Think how complicated the current operation must be. If Turkey is in the European Union, many of the current trade restrictions would end, the rules would be reduced, and whoever is responsible for trafficking those weapons wouldn’t need to hide a crate here or there amongst large shipments of relief supplies. Someone who’s already doing business in Turkey could begin bringing in weapons without customs hassling them.”

            “The last report the FCO gave seems to support your deductions,” John says, the telltale tap of the keyboard indicating his navigating to another webpage. “It says the Turkish Customs Union ‘is not working as effectively as it should to liberalise trade’. It also says that the ‘lack of movement in Turkey's EU accession process appears to be contributing to Turkey's unwillingness to implement fully its Customs Union obligations’.”

            “So it’s not just that importing into Turkey is already difficult, it’s that it’s growing even more challenging to do so,” Sherlock says quietly, deep in thought.

            “Doesn’t this seem a bit elaborate?” John asks, dragging Sherlock out of his reverie. “Blackmailing half of Parliament to vote to support Turkey’s accession just so trade is a little easier?”

            “That in itself would be enough, John. The amount of money to be made from trafficking in weapons in that part of the world is incalculable. And once the weapons are in the country, it’s surprisingly easy to get across the border into Iran or Syria unnoticed. But you’re right—that’s not the only benefit Turkey would reap from its accession.” He comes over to the bed and sits down next to John against the headboard. “The UK's visa regime for Turkish nationals would ease, as well, and we could expect to see an increase in immigration. And as easy as it is to smuggle weapons into heavily militarized countries, it’s just as easy to smuggle people out. With the right resources, a person can become a Turkish citizen, then an immigrant without much trouble at all. And whoever we’re dealing with has certainly got the resources.”

            “This really doesn’t seem like something Mycroft would be involved in. You don’t still think it’s him,” John says, but it isn’t really a question. They both know that, if Mycroft is on one side of this situation, it would be the side attempting to keep weapons out of hostile enemies’ hands, and potential terrorists out of England. They don’t feel comfortable in much of their knowledge about Mycroft, but they don’t doubt what he’s willing to do—and _has_ done—for Queen and country.

            Part of Sherlock had never truly believed Mycroft guilty of the events of the last month. It didn’t really bear his signature. But potential sentimentality could have clouded his judgement, so he chose to believe the worst of his older brother, just in case. What a satisfying surprise to find he’d been wrong.

            “No,” he says. “The impetus to blackmail members of Parliament to reach this end would interest Mycroft very little.” Sherlock holds his hand out, palm up. “I need to do research,” he says, gesturing towards the laptop.

            John closes the lid and deposits into Sherlock’s open hand. “What do you need from me?” he asks.

            “Silence,” Sherlock says quickly, then registers John’s deflated look. “And maybe a cup of tea?”

 

*

           

            John had every intention of staying awake in case Sherlock needed him or there was a break in the case. He puttered around the room, methodically repacking his Bergen, mindlessly flipping through channels on the telly, fetching the occasional cups of tea and sandwiches from the kitchen downstairs, but sometime after two in the morning the stress of the day caught up with him, and he nodded off where he sat in the chair by the window.

            He wakes up several hours later to sunlight streaming through the window and Sherlock still hunched over the laptop. John raises his arms above his head and groans. _I am too old to be sleeping in chairs_ , he thinks as he rolls his head, working the kinks out of his neck.

            Sherlock glances up at the noise. “Ah, good. You’re awake,” he says.

            “Did you find something?” John asks. He gets up slowly and gracelessly makes his way over to the detective.

            “I compiled a list of businesses that would stand to gain the most from Turkey’s accession into the European Union and compared it to a list of businesses that have, in some way, supported charities providing relief efforts to the Middle East. But that list was gallingly long. Then I realized that it wasn’t the _businesses_ that matter so much as those who _run_ those businesses, so I went back to the list and modified it to show which business’s owners will most benefit from Turkey’s accession, and that list was significantly shorter—though still substantial enough to warrant further culling—so I cross-referenced that list of names with the names of those who are involved in charities sending relief aid to the Middle East; but that list was _still_ surprisingly long—people are far too caring—so I focused on those charities whose relief supplies are funnelled through Turkey, and when I compared the shipping ports those charities used to those used by the aforementioned businesses to find commonalities, I was able to narrow the list down to four names.”

            “What time is it?” John asks.

            Sherlock gives him a curious look, then says “Just after six.”           

            “Then it’s officially too early for me to have gotten even a fraction of what you just said. Let me shower, maybe get a cup of tea. Then we can go over it all again.”

            Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Really, John. You may not be stupid, but sometimes you can be frustratingly slow.”

             John just nods as he makes his way into the loo.

 

            When he comes out a little while later Sherlock is still lounging on the bed, but two steaming cups of tea have mysteriously appeared on the bedside table.

            “In the interest of efficiency,” Sherlock says when he sees John eyeing the mugs.

             John curls his fingers around the handle of the cup and brings it to his lips. “I like efficiency,” he says, after taking a careful first sip. _Perfect_.

            Once John is settled next to Sherlock on the bed, the younger man launches into the results of his nocturnal research.

            “So we’re down to four names,” John repeats when the younger man finishes his explanation. “Have you run them through the Met’s database?”

            “Of course. All of them lead exceedingly boring lives. Ordinary tickets: parking, speeding, two minor automobile accidents. Nothing that suggests one of them is a powerful criminal.”

            “So, where do we go from here?”

            “Warehouses,” Sherlock says simply.

            “The one from the other day?” John asks, scepticism colouring his tone. “I thought you got all you could from there.”

            “I did. Besides, I’ve already checked—it was leased under a false name. No, we’re going to look at the warehouses that run the shipping operations for the four companies our suspects control.”            

            John can’t keep the look of surprise from crossing his face. “You want me to come with you?”

            “Of course, John. I always want you to come with me,” Sherlock admits in a rare and surprising show of emotion. “But sometimes it’s not wise.”

            “You think my joining you today is wise?”

            “No, but after yesterday, where my leaving you here caused you to flounder about in a sea of self-doubt and anxiety, I think it’s the more prudent option. Your physical safety I have some control over, but, as much as it pains me, I still have little control over the damage you do to yourself.”

            John is silent for a few minutes. He desperately wants to trust his usefulness to Sherlock, to trust that Sherlock won’t just disappear again, and to trust that he’s not just having an elaborate and strikingly realistic dream, but he’s had trust issues for as long as he can remember, and he hasn’t been able to wish them away yet—not for lack of trying. “I think it’ll take a while,” he says. He reaches over and squeezes the other man’s hand. He hopes Sherlock knows how much he wishes his mind worked differently, and how much he’s trying to change it.

            “I know,” Sherlock says in one of those uncanny moments he seems to just _know_ what John is thinking.

             A sharp knock on their bedroom door breaks them out of the quiet moment. Kate hasn’t ventured up to see them, yet, but evidently that’s about to change.

            Sherlock gets up to open the door.

            “Hullo, Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson!” Perseus pushes past Sherlock and into the room. “I’m so glad you’re still here!”

            Sherlock moves to stand between the skinny ginger and John. “What are you doing here?” he asks harshly. “How did you know we were here?”

            “I’m emergency protocol four. Anthea told me if I was ever called in, there was trouble,” Perseus says.

            “That doesn’t even remotely resemble an answer. What’s that supposed to mean?” Sherlock asks.

            Some of the excitement evident on Perseus’s face falls away when he seems to remember the reason for his presence there. “Oh, right. Uh, you see, sir, I have a special knack. I sort of…find people.”

            “You failed miserably with John,” Sherlock says, bitterness turning his tone into something sharp and sour.

            Perseus ducks his head and stares at his shoes. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I’d only been brought in a few days before, and Mr. Holmes didn’t yet trust me or my skills.”

            Moving past his obvious desire to verbally rip the young man to pieces, Sherlock asks, “How did you find us? What lead you here?”

            The look Perseus gives Sherlock, then John, feels weighted. “It’s significantly harder to find people who are already lost. It’s much easier if you never stop looking at them in the first place.”

            Sherlock rolls his eyes. “That’s needlessly cryptic.”

            John slides off the bed and moves to stand next to Sherlock. “What’re you saying?” he asks. “That we’re always being watched?”

            “I wrote a facial-recognition program that runs constantly in the background of Mr Holmes’s computer. After you were found in hospital,” Perseus says, addressing John. “I added you and Sherlock to the program. It was already keeping track of Mycroft, along with a few other select persons of import. The program: it follows you. It uses satellites and CCTV—even taps into privately run security cameras—to trace your movements. If we always know where you are, then we also know the moment you go missing.”

            “That is immeasurably creepy,” John says, his face the picture of shocked horror.

            “So,” Sherlock starts, looking altogether too at ease for John’s comfort. “You’ve known we were here this whole time.” It’s not a question.

            “Yes, sir,” Perseus confirms.

            “Then why are you here now?” Sherlock asks, his voice tinged with impatience.

            “Well, you see, sir. It’s Mr. Holmes,” Perseus says.

             John notes his obvious discomfort. “He wants you to bring us in?” he asks.

            “No, sir. He thought this was as safe a place as any for you both to stay.” Perseus continues, addressing Sherlock, “He said he might be able to figure out what’s going on without your ‘constant meddling’,” Perseus says, faintly imitating Mycroft’s voice. “But I really think he was having a hard time concentrating from all the worrying he does about you and Dr. Watson.”

            Sherlock sneers. “Yes, I’m sure he’s overcome with all of the concern he’s experiencing.”

            “I wouldn’t know,” Perseus says.

            John finally recognizes the tremor of emotion in the young man’s voice. “What’s happened?” he asks. “You’re worried. Why?”

            Perseus’s shoulders slump and he heaves a heavy sigh. “Mr. Holmes. He’s…the computer program…Dave, I named it…Dave lost Mr. Holmes.” Perseus glances up into John’s eyes, and John identifies with the fear he sees there. “I’ve lost Mr. Holmes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have *never* researched a story as much as I researched this chapter. Ugh. I'm exhausted!
> 
> For anyone who's interested, I did have to muddle with reality for this chapter. In truth, the UK already supports Turkey's accession into the EU, with the caveat that they meet the standard requirements that the EU has set up and that all EU member countries must adhere to. Turkey's been struggling to meet these requirements for decades, hence why it's still struggling in it quest for accession. 
> 
> Let me know what ya'll think in the comments! I love reading your responses almost as much as I love John! (And that's a LOT!)


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

 

            When Sherlock was a very young boy, he lived with his parents in a large country home in Hampshire. It was a lovely house, albeit a little too quiet and a little too cold, but full of countless nooks and crevices in which to hide—and Sherlock did so love to play hide and seek. But he had no one with which to play: Mummy and Father were very busy, Cook was always up to her elbows in a chicken or surrounded by clouds of flour, and Nanny had absolutely no patience whatsoever and always announced her position before Sherlock really had the chance to even begin looking for her.

            So Sherlock spent hours hiding his stuffed tiger around the house, crying pitifully in order to spur Nanny into searching for it. And he waited as patiently as possible for summers, during which time his brother would be home from school and could be cajoled into playing the game for long, sneaky afternoons. Mycroft was very smart and terribly good at finding clever places in which to secret himself; Sherlock looked up to him ever so much.

            The summer after Sherlock turned seven, though, Mycroft returned home for the summer and announced to his younger brother that he would no longer be indulging in childish games. “One mustn’t waste time skulking in corners when one could be accomplishing something of merit, Brother,” he pronounced haughtily.

            A month later Mycroft’s opinion on the matter seemed solidified with the death of their father. “No problem was ever solved by hiding from it,” he told Sherlock after finding him crouched behind a sofa during the reception after the funeral. He’d sat Sherlock down on the sofa with a biography on Copernicus, then went off to check on their Mummy.

           

            Sherlock blinks several times to shake off the memory. He’d deleted so much of that year; he’s surprised that memory survived. “He’s not gone into hiding,” he states emphatically, responding to a suggestion Perseus has just made. They’re still standing in an awkward triangle at the foot of the bed, considering the new development on the ever-unfolding situation from the last several weeks.

            Perseus bites his lip and looks as though he wants to question Sherlock’s assertion, but he admirably stays silent.

            “He doesn’t believe in hiding from problems. If his disappearance was self-imposed it’s because he believes he’s close to finding answers,” Sherlock explains further.

            A thoughtful look crosses John’s face. “I suppose he’s close to finding answers if it wasn’t self-imposed, too,” he says. “I mean, why else would someone take him, if not because he’s getting too close?”

            “Exactly,” Sherlock nods in agreement. “How long has he been missing?” he asks, turning his sharp gaze on Perseus.

            “Dave alerted me the moment he disappeared just over an hour ago,” Perseus responds quickly.

            “And where was he when you lost him?”

            Perseus winces at the blunt reminder that Mycroft’s unknown whereabouts is his fault. “Anthea’s got a half-sister who lives in St. Albans. Last surveillance we have on him, he is leaving there and headed west along the M25. But we don’t know if he picked up the M1 south back to the city, or if he continued on west.”

            “Or north?” John asks, leaning against the end of the bed.

            “There’s a traffic camera that would have picked him up if he’d gone north, Perseus says, shaking his head.

             Sherlock heads into the bathroom, but leaves the door open so he can hear John and Perseus’s continued conversation.

            “Wait a minute. I thought all of your cars had GPS tracking devices,” John says.

            “They do,” Perseus confirms. “Mycroft disabled the one in his vehicle before he even left this morning.”

            “So he doesn’t want to be found?” John asks.

             At this, Sherlock pokes his head out of the bathroom. “No, it’s a message for me,” he says around a mouthful of toothpaste suds. “He’s giving himself a time buffer, but he’s telling me to come find him.”

            “Dave is looking for him, now, but so far there haven’t been any hits,” Perseus says. “And I’ve tried to remotely activate the GPS device in his car, but so far it’s not responding.”

            “We’ll start at the sister’s, then,” Sherlock says as he strides out of the bathroom.

            Before John has time to ask questions or figure out if Sherlock wants him to accompany them, Sherlock has donned his coat and shoved all of their collected belongings into their two bags, then slung them both over his shoulder.

            “Do you need anything else before we go?” the detective asks John. He gives the room a onceover, making sure he hasn’t left anything behind.

            John hobbles a few steps towards the bedside table and rips his gun off the underside of the drawer where he’d affixed it securely with thick silver tape last night. “Ready,” he says, shoving the firearm into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back.

 

            Half an hour later, Sherlock and John are in the back of a familiar black sedan watching the surveillance footage of Mycroft leaving Mrs. Barber’s residence—footage somehow gleaned from a neighbouring house’s private security system’s cameras.

            Perseus is leaning over the back of the front seat, either ignoring or unaware of the disapproving looks the driver is giving him roughly every thirty seconds. The young man strains to watch the footage as it plays on the laptop, though he’s already familiar with what happens in it.

            They’ve already seen the recording of Mycroft merging onto the M25, but there’s little to glean from it. There’s much more information, however, in this video: The footage shows Mycroft talking to a woman in her late thirties to mid-forties on the front steps of a charming white brick row home. The conversation lasts for about five minutes, then Mycroft departs, getting into a sedan much like the one they’re riding in now.

            “She’s hiding something,” Sherlock says abruptly. He pauses the footage and backs it up to watch the exchange between Mycroft and the woman again. “Look, she’s guarding that door like she’s protecting the crown jewels.”

            “Probably better than them,” John mumbles absently, not looking away from the laptop screen.

            Sherlock turns to look at John carefully. He can’t decide if it’s the allusion to Moriarty that startles him, or how infrequently John mentions the man that Sherlock finds so surprising.

            “Does she have any kids?” John asks, looking up at Perseus.

            The young man nods. “One, a daughter, four-years-old.”

            “Well, there you have it,” John says, leaning back in his seat.

            “Have what?” Sherlock asks, rejoining the conversation.

            “My Mum used to do that all the time,” John tries explaining. “That’s a pet owner and toddler’s Mum stance.” At the confusion still evident in both Perseus’s and Sherlock expressions, he tries again. “She wasn’t hiding anything. She was trying to keep her kid from running out the door.”

            “Yes, but look at how nervous she is, eyes darting around, looking both ways down the street to see if anyone else is around. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to be seen talking to Mycroft.”

            “Well, it is a bit suspicious, him being there at half seven on a Monday morning, isn’t it?” John asks.

            “Is it? Why?”

            “It’s a bit early for social calls,” John responds

            Sherlock makes a small humming noise while he thinks. A moment later he says, “But Mycroft is nothing if not exceedingly socially conversant. _Why_ then, is he visiting her at an hour that’s considered impolite?”

            “He must have found something, yeah?” John suggests. “Something that only someone close to Anthea would have the answers to?”

            “Like what?” Sherlock asks.

            “I don’t have a clue, Sherlock, but I’m sure you will as soon as you see her,” John says. A moment later he continues: “What do you think he’s saying here,” he asks, pointing to a new scene in the footage, “that’s such a shock?” They stare at the paused recording: a curious tableau where a rather menacing looking Mycroft, his mouth open mid-sentence, is leaning into an alarmed looking Mrs. Barber, her eyes wide with fear, a hand covering her mouth.

            “Why don’t we go find out?” Sherlock asks, glancing past John and out the window, watching as the house front they’ve been examining for the last forty-five minutes rolls into view. “We’re here.”

            He and John climb out of the backseat of the car and are walking towards the front door when Sherlock notices Perseus is following close behind. The detective turns and grabs the young man by the bicep, then begins leading him back to the black sedan. “You’re staying here,” he says evenly. “You need to find out what Mycroft learned that necessitated a trip here.”

            A disappointed look flashes across Perseus’s face. “Oh,” he mutters. “You sure you don’t need my help getting inside?” he asks. “I’ve got credentials,” he adds, reaching for his wallet in the back pocket of his trousers.

            “Adorable,” Sherlock says flatly. “But I think I can handle this. Just find out what Mycroft discovered.” With a patented dramatic swirl of his Belstaff coat, Sherlock turns and rejoins John, who is just stepping up to their target’s front door.

 

*

           

           The woman is less than pleased to see the other Holmes brother standing on her front steps. “Not you, too,” she groans.

            “Lovely to meet you, as well, Mrs. Barber,” Sherlock says, his tone heavy with sarcasm.

            John, recognizing his role in this situation, reaches out a hand. “John Watson, Mrs. Barber. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says with sincerity.

            The woman cautiously accepts his hand and shakes it weakly. She’s standing just as she did in the surveillance footage, the door closed tight on her, allowing no clear view into the house. “You can call me Susan,” she says quietly.

            John offers her a warm smile, then says, “We’re terribly sorry to bother you, Susan, but might you have some time to talk to us? Just for a few minutes?” he asks.

            She casts a quick glance over her shoulder, back into the house, before turning back around and nodding once. “Sure,” she says.

            Before John has a chance to ask anything, however, a tiny girl with thick chestnut coloured hair and deep brown eyes, pokes her head around Susan’s thigh. “Hullo,” she says with a tiny voice.

            Sherlock just stares down his nose at her. His expression says he’s curious, but his body language reads “I’d rather not.”

            John’s smile spreads wider across his face as he leans down carefully to the little girl’s level. “Hi, there. My name’s John,” he says.

            “M’Charlotte,” she says, weaving her way further around Susan’s leg. “Would you like to see my horse?”

            John looks up at Susan, who just rolls her eyes and sighs. “Yes, all right. Come in,” she says, backing up into the inside hall.

            John smiles down at Charlotte and nods emphatically. He follows her into the sitting room, with Susan and Sherlock close behind. The little girl pats the seat of the sofa, indicating where she’d like John to sit. Once he’s settled, she climbs up next to him, leaning against his side, and holding a large stuffed horse in her hands.

            “We haven’t had many visitors lately,” Susan says, casually. “I think she’s a little starved for attention.”

            John makes a “neigh”ing sound and gallops the horse across Charlotte’s legs, causing her to dissolve into a wave of giggles. He does it a second time, and by the third time she’s nearly screaming with laughter.

            Susan watches them from the doorway, while Sherlock, who has been roaming around the perimeter of the room, looking at books and pictures and knick-knacks, approaches the little girl and bends down in front of her, his eyes narrow and scrutinizing.

            “Is your husband aware that he’s not this child’s father?” Sherlock asks, turning away from the little girl to look at Susan. “Or are you not her mother?”

            “Mr. Holmes, I have no idea what you’re implying—” Susan starts saying, but Sherlock cuts her off.

            “Don’t try lying to me, Mrs. Barber. I’m more accurate than any polygraph test. I know. I’ve run the experiments. Now. Let’s try again. Who are this girl’s parents?”

            Susan visibly chews the inside of her bottom lip and stares for several long moments at the little girl sitting on the sofa next to John, no longer laughing, instead clutching the doctor’s arm.

            “Is it so obvious?” she finally asks.

            “To me it is,” Sherlock responds. “You both have the same hair colour, but you and your husband both have clefts in your chins and blue eyes. Recessive genes, both of them. And this child has neither.”

            Susan sighs and lowers her chin. “Charlotte’s my sister’s—well, half-sister’s—daughter,” she admits. “Wow, that feels so strange to say out loud.”

            “That’s how they got to her, isn’t it?” John asks. “That’s how they got to Anthea? They found out about her daughter.”

            Susan gives a slight nod, then collapses into a wine-coloured armchair.  
            Recognizing a more comfortable lap, Charlotte slides off of the sofa and climbs into her aunt-mother’s lap. “It’s been so long,” Susan says. “We thought we were almost in the clear.”

            John clears his throat, then asks, “Will you tell us about it? Whatever you know?”

            Susan considers John for a few moments, and, making a decision, starts to talk. “My sister met Tom while she and Mycroft were out of the country for work. My sister’s not an overly emotional person, but she and Tom had such a passionate, intense relationship. It only lasted six weeks, but god, she fell hard. Probably had something to do with the fact that it was against the rules. My sister’s much more likely to make the rules work for her than to go against them. But there was something about Tom, she said, that she couldn’t deny.

            “Mycroft knew, of course. But he didn’t say anything. Probably figured it would blow over once they returned to London. And he was partly right. It did blow over. For Tom. She was so heartbroken.”

            “Anthea? Doesn’t seem the type to be so affected by sentiment,” John says sceptically.

            “Ah, you’ve only really seen her while she's working, I'd imagine. No, my sister seems removed from emotion, but I assure you she’s quite capable of them. What’s that phrase? ‘Still waters run deep’? She’s not the type to show it, but she’s can be greatly influenced by sentiment. Anyway, she was almost five months along with Charlotte before she realized she was even pregnant. Came to me terrified she was going to lose her job.”

            “Why didn’t she terminate?” Sherlock asks. He’d moved in to occupy the vacancy left behind by Charlotte next to John on the sofa, and now he leans back, relaxing against the cushions behind him.

            Susan sighs, her breath ruffling the hair on the top of Charlotte’s head. “I guess she just couldn’t get rid of the last connection she had to Tom. See?” she says, a small smile curves her lips. “Sentiment.”

            “How did she hide it?” John asks. “Mycroft doesn’t miss anything—I imagine a pregnancy would practically announce itself to him with bells and whistles.”

            Susan smiles wider, understanding exactly what John means. “It wasn’t easy,” she says with a gentle laugh. “Oh, at first it wasn’t too bad. She wasn’t really showing—she’s always carried her weight well. Then she started to limit her calories, spent more time at the gym, and it was winter, so she could hide under layers of clothes and bulky coats. Around twenty-seven weeks we started to get worried, though. She seemed to just…pop overnight. And then the bomb happened.”

            “Which one?” Sherlock asks. “That year there were bombings in Nepal, Nigeria, several in Mumbai, Delhi, and Bombay, one in Pakistan, one in Iran…oh. Oh, I see.”

            “What? What do you see?” John asks, looking back and forth from Sherlock, whose hands are steepled against his chin, to Susan, who’s resting her forehead on the top of Charlotte’s head.

            “Anthea and Tom’s relationship wasn’t sanctioned because he was an MI-6 agent stationed in Iran. He was there when the embassy was attacked?” Sherlock asks, though he already knows the answer.

            Susan nods slowly.

            “Mycroft was even more insufferable for weeks after that, made all the worse because his assistant was never around,” Sherlock says.

            “Like I said, he knew about my sister and Tom,” Susan repeats. “She was performing her job so poorly, he assumed it was because of Tom’s death—and it was, in part—but it was also because she was almost seven months pregnant and nervous about being discovered. So he gave her six weeks off to get herself straightened out. It's actually kind of lucky how everything worked out. Charlotte was born near the end of that time, three weeks early—no doubt due to all of the stress. Roy—that’s my husband—he has a sister who’s a midwife. She delivered Charlotte here less than a week before my sister was expected back at work. So she told Mycroft I’d had a baby and asked if she might have a few more weeks so she could stay and to help me. A few weeks later she was back at work, and Charlotte stayed here with Roy and me. And my sister’s been spending every spare minute she’s had since here. Legally Charlotte’s mine—my name is on the birth certificate—but my sister’s just as much her mum as I am.”

            “So what happened about six weeks ago?” John asks softly.

            “At first I didn’t know anything was wrong. She’s been busy, yeah? The last time we really talked she said something about a dinner date. Didn’t say much more about it, but I could tell she was excited. I was so happy for her; it was the first time since Tom that she’d shown any interest in dating. And then…well, then she was just gone. She usually calls every night to say goodnight to Charlotte, but she stopped calling. I didn’t hear from her until over a week later, and then it wasn’t even a conversation. She just said ‘keep Charlotte close, and don’t go outside,’ then hung up. Haven’t heard from her since.”

            She says it casually, but John can see the anxiety written all over her face, the way her jaw tenses, her right eye twitching, her lips thinning into a tight line. “You haven’t heard from her, but you _have_ heard from someone else,” he infers.

            “Yes,” Susan confirms. “About a month ago, I got package in the mail. Had a copy of Charlotte’s birth certificate with my name crossed out and my sister’s written in. There were also pictures of Charlotte and I at the park, at the store, even playing in the back garden. And there was a note. It said my sister needed to behave and do as she was told, then she could come home. And that I needed to behave and keep my mouth shut if I wanted her back safely.”

            “Do you know what she did?” Sherlock asks, leaning forward.

            Susan nods stiffly.

            John mimics her slowly. “I don’t blame her, Susan,” he tells the woman. “It’s not her fault.”

            Susan relaxes visibly, though not completely.

            “Is that what Mycroft said that shocked you?” Sherlock asks. when a confused expression crosses her face, he continues on to explain: “We’ve seen the security tape. We know he said something that upset you.”

            At that moment, the sound of the front door opening startles them, and they all make a move to stand. 

            Perseus stomps into the room a few seconds later, sighing dramatically. “I can’t find anything,” he says, sulking. “The last thing he was looking at on his personal computer was just a report that some identity thief was trying to use the bank card of an agent who died in Iran over four years ago. Some guy named Tom Reynolds.”

            John sucks in a quick breath of air, and looks over to Sherlock whose eyes have grown bright and sharp.

            A small sob escapes Susan’s mouth. She clutches Charlotte closer to her, a gentle hand pressing the small girl’s head against her shoulder.

            “Does that name mean something to you guys?” Perseus asks, obviously surprised by their reactions.

            “Where was it used?” Sherlock asks forcefully.

            Perseus glances from John to Sherlock before he answers slowly. “A…café in Gerrards Cross?” he says with noticeable timidity.

            “Right. Come along, John,” Sherlock says, abruptly leaving the room without so much as a farewell to Anthea’s sister.

             John makes a move to follow after him, but Susan grabs a handful of his jacket sleeve and stops him.

            “Her name’s Jane, Dr. Watson, and she has a daughter who misses her very much.”

            John lowers his chin and shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have told me her name. It’s against protocol.”

            Susan huffs an awkward laugh, completely devoid of humour. “You really think she has a position waiting for her at that clearance level now? She’s rather shown her hand, I should think. No, not after what she’s done. Every criminal from petty to professional knows they can get to her through Charlotte. Her career is over. But her life isn’t, Dr. Watson. So please, bring her home.”

            John, who recognizes how unlikely it is that Anthea…Jane is still alive after more than a month in captivity—especially if hers has been anything like his own—promises nothing. He nods once, then follows Sherlock out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, it’s been a rough few weeks for this story: lots of issues with self-doubt, narrative conflicts, and plot struggles. I apologize for the protracted time between updates. Unfortunately, I start teaching again tomorrow (I was hoping to be done with this story before school started again, but then it went and exploded plot everywhere), and I have massively important comprehensive exams to take the weekend of the 6th, so it might be another two weeks before I can update again. But I WILL update!
> 
> Another note about accuracy: The attack on the British Embassy in Iran actually happened in the late fall of 2011, and there were no reported deaths. For the purposes of this story, I alter the actual date and kill a few people off. But it’s fiction. I get to change the facts.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for The Secrets People Hide](https://archiveofourown.org/works/910833) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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